Just thought I’d check in and let anyone know the Yankee Candle is still burning at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse – along with an oil lamp because we like the ambiance.

Looked like the predicted thunderstorms were coming so I decided to mow until it rained. HA on me. It didn’t. Not one drop. I bounced around on two different tractors for four hours plus, which is better than pushing.

Finishing up, I was covered in dust and grime. I’m clean now and drinking peach mango iced tea.

Oh, for goodness sake, I’ve got the hiccups . . .

When my husband’s niece died on April 25th of this year, he drove out to be with his brother and family. I wrote about it here. She’s the little girl in the chair right over there to your left, but you probably knew that.

Well, when Der Bingle stopped here on his way back to work at Wright-Patt Air Force Base, he opened his bag and handed me some copies from her memorial service. And I set them aside on a table in the corner of the living room. I guess we were talking at the time and I just assumed I’d look more closely at them later. But I didn’t; I just kept walking by them and noticing them, yet not picking one up.

Today I was feeling at my wit’s end – not just a usual blip on the screen, but profoundly so.  I walked aimlessly into the living room and my hand brushed on something that connected with something else which tipped another thing a certain way . . . and the paper with Jody’s picture on it fluttered to the floor.

It landed so that the back side was facing me and when I picked it up and brought it in focus, I saw what I had missed some weeks ago – a tribute to her from her little brother, Joe. He’s not little anymore, though; he’s this Air Force guy now.

This is what I read:
(click on image to enlarge)

At first I thought, “Drat, I would have included this in the posts about her life and her passing.” I think, however, that it worked out better this way – his dad’s remembrance was paramount then, a focusing lens on a life that was. And it was powerful, a lighthouse carrying a message from heart to heart.

Joe’s words echo back to what his dad wrote, reminding us of those words and putting emphasis on the family aspect.

Then I looked inside and read what was under her picture:

And I felt no longer at wit’s end, but comforted and encouraged . . . and, yes, looking forward to going on.

So that’s today’s story, one that came free like the kiss of a breeze.

Since I have been able to read more with the Kindle for Mac application, I have rediscovered another benefit – the domino effect of being reminded of subjects. Connections. A mention of Keats in a paragraph of a book about spies and that afternoon I find myself revisiting his work on the internet . . . and that leads me to other poets. A reference to history and “well, I’ll just look that up.” And on and on . . .

Shoot, it really makes me wish I were years younger so I would have more time to tour more topics. Heck, it makes me think I should take better care of myself so I can not cheat myself out of the rest of my journey. And it is a journey; I had forgotten that in days of piecemeal activities that lulled me into just going around a turnstile.

It seems that the Gnome Dome fella must have been exposed to a little bit of Dandelion gene therapy:

Well, here’s the official LINK to this article shown below:

Well, this is a great note – I thought I had posted pictures of my Spam shirt and hat, courtesy of LZP, but, no, I can’t find them. Sigh. I guess they are somewhere in iphoto or at KodakGallery. Bummer.

Oh, my gosh . . . look at that sun-kissed gnome. But then look at the curls at the bottom of that white beard.

I can remember when Shirley Temple curls covered the upper part, oh, many moons ago. Of course, back then, Der Bingle had blond curls that just determinedly fought an Air Force haircut – little wings would sprout from the sides of his head.

Ah, but LZP, we love you.

I just typed that “hello” up there without thinking. I should have thought because the image that popped into my head right afterward was that of the bag lady character in Housesitter with Steve Martin and Goldy Hawn. Martin first sees her digging in a trashcan outside a restaurant in New York; she looks up and sings out a “hellloooo.” Then, when his pretend wife, played by Goldy Hawn, needs parents she recruits this woman for her mother. Martin can’t place her until he sees her outside his house in party dress in his trashcan. She looks up, sings “helllooo” and he, as only Steve Martin can, responds with a drawn out “Oh  . . . . My  . . . .  God.”

I believe I should have just deleted the “hello” title, rather than delve into that paragraph of explanation, but, hey, you know me.

I took a couple of people to Fort Wayne yesterday for appointments and today I am doing the same. So it’s a deja vu day. Today, though, the appointments are long ones so I am going to charge up the macbook and read while waiting. It’s supposed to be fairly cool, so I will probably sit in the backseat with my feet propped up and when anyone goes by the window, I will smile and say, “Hellllloooooo.”

Yesterday was sunny and, oh, maybe 70 degrees. It was the kind of day that does good things to the chemicals in  your brain. I spent it on lawn mowers . . . which, to my mind, was good. All alone out there in the day with the time to think long thoughts. And periods of not thinking.

Of course, my farmer’s tan is getting more pronounced – but then I don’t plan on being in a bikini anytime soon.

This morning Summer was wrapped in a big comforter on the floor – she had fallen asleep during marathon late-night movies. Shane thought the beanbag looked comfy and so we ended up with  BUTTHEAD to BUTT:

Der Bingle drove up last night from the Ohio Redoubt and at a rest stop talked with Quentin thanks to Sprint . . . and they spoke about, according to Quentin, “The Wrath of Mom”.  I guess, when I spoke with him the night before,  I had made an impression on my son by launching into a litany of  grousing remarks about some circumstances – see, I am being circumspect here, but only for that one instance.

Now, I again am open and specific: I talked about becoming a serial killer and I quoted indignant remarks made to other people as I talked with him. It was sort of a a verbal St. Valentine’s Massacre redux. Maybe like an audiobook with the words read with passion; I imagine he was glad we were not video-chatting and so I could not re-enact my arm waving,  scowling faces and authentic AmeliaJake  putting on the Hex curses.

That conversation was Thursday night and last night, after he had warned his dad, we talked again and the conversation wound its way to whether or not my attorney should put me on the stand. At first, Quentin was of the opinion that he should not, believing I would erupt like Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men” and that would be disastrous. On the other hand, Q then thought that might not be bad and my attorney could use my crazy time on the stand to bolster an insanity plea. But then I would be Jack Nicholson in “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

So we don’t know.

I sense I should end this post now. Rose certainly has her work cut out for her.