That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I went to bed expecting to get up, walk, mow my little lawn (if I remember how), go to the LaGrange house and then down to Albion, while leaving something here for people to munch on. But I got up and it was lightly raining . . . and 65 degrees. I darn near felt chilled. Yessiree, Bob.

So . . .  looks like  trips to LaGrange and Albion . . . and, oh, for heaven’s sake, some picking up around the house. I could take a short walk, but my shoes are brand-new and another day of muscle rest sounds okay to me. And that mowing thing . . . well, let the tortured grass of 2012 enjoy its green victory. Yes, I like that idea.

We have a Number 16 birthday coming up in just a few days and Der Bingle ordered her gift and it is coming addressed to her – to intercept the mail or not? Why is it coming early? Well, he asked me about the birthday and a gift and suggested something and I said I’d ask her mother. I did and she said she thought Miss 16 would like it, so I told Der Bingle and in no time at all it was ordered. Kind of reminds me of when her brother needed an electronic gizmo and the same grandpa drove to Columbus, Ohio to pick it up  and then turned around and got here at Kendallville late that same day. Do you suppose these kids have any idea how lucky they are?

Then again, did I have any idea how lucky I was when I was 16? Not a clue. My cousin Lana wrote me a note when Mother died and said: You were so lucky to have two parents who loved you so much. Oh, gosh, a little rain outside and now a little facial rain inside. Well, comfort for the soul, perhaps.

I went to the store and bought myself a pair of walking shoes, ones with comfy, cushioned heels. Then I came home and decided a nap would feel so good, so I took one. Then I stretched, got a drink, started to read but felt myself dozing off . . . and went with it. And now I’m going to settle down for a long winter’s night in the middle of summer.

This afternoon I wanted to go visit Kathryn at the nursing home and I wanted to be clean, so I showered and shampooed. Then I brushed my hair and decided my roots needed to dry upright . . . so I scooped up most of my hair into a topknot and stuck a hat on my head – my dear, beloved Dorfman Pacific hat with the mesh crown and the neck strap.

Sometime at the the nursing home, I took my hat off, forgetting about my hair sticking out at odd angles and spouting on top. I did not realize this until much later, after many trips to the nurses’ station and talking with people who came in the room.

I notice I’ve been doing this frequently. I don’t know what the staff calls me there, and I guess it’s more comfortable for my self confidence that way.

I know where I have been; I just didn’t realize how things blended together, as did days. This has been a week of trips to Fort Wayne, hours spent at the LaGrange house as the new green metal roof goes on, extra time at the
nursing home because Mrs. Feller’s daughter’s been sick . . . and because I like sitting there with Kathryn and Clara . . . and one dastardly day of eight or so hours of catching up (a little bit) on housework. I just don’t like that activity and am stressing rules, i.e. You get something out; you put it away.

So, no, I’m not gone; I’m here . . . for what it is worth.

Just a bit of evening light is coming through the windows and individual lamps make pools of cozy light here and there. A lot of us have our butts on one chair and our feet on another – that is, we each have our own two chairs. Glenn Miller is on the music player and right now we’re listening to Glenn Miller and “There’ll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover” and it’s relaxing.

We’re thinking of the cemetery in Kingman, Indiana because we found a three-week lost letter today from Phyllis about how the flower on my dad’s grave is flourishing. When I say Phyllis, I sort of mean Phyllis and Duane – Duane being my oldest cousin on Daddy’s side. I can remember their wedding when I was pretty young; it’s always been Phyllis and Duane. Duane was the star figure in one on my dad’s bedtime stories; I can remember lying in bed in Bloomington, Indiana and choosing “The Night Duane broke his arm” often. It was a basketball game – a 1950’s Indiana basketball game.

I asked Duane and Phyllis to be The Robert Grismore Geranium Watering Brigade since they live down the road a bit. Phyllis was worried when they left to visit their son Tim, but when she got back there were 17 blooms on it.

Thank you, Phyllis & Duane, from Mother and me, and, of course, the man who rests there.

It has been a long day and my head aches. I came home, shucked my clothes,looked at my email and saw that there was an update on a CarePage. The patient is a little boy and he is all right. Someone fed his dog, Buster, rat poison and he died nine days later. He was a Golden Labrador who was not quite two.

Uh, I tried for a group picture and LZP, of course, has a variety of expressions – one of which was fairly normal. Unfortunately, in that one Der Bingle was not as his best. So we tried a little tweaking:

Here are the original four shots.

I have been scatterbrained of late, more so than usual, and I am having trouble organizing anything – even little post tidbits. I don’t see improvement on the horizon, so I have decided to adapt and just open a post and drop off any thoughts that are falling out of my head at that time.

Well, I’ve mentioned going to Iowa, but I didn’t say that we were taking someone else – the Monk. The Monk is a ceramic statue that Cameron and I saw a couple of years ago at the Catholic Rummage Sale; I think it supposed to be St. Francis of Assisi, though he was missing the usual birds on his shoulder and his hand. We didn’t buy him. When we got home, however, we heard the call of The Monk and Cameron went back and purchased him and brought him home on the scooter, balanced between his legs. Not something he woke up thinking he would be doing.

Anyway, The Monk moved around from job to job here and for a while we tried to convince Der Bingle he needed a monk at the Ohio Redoubt. Then one weekend, Der Bingle and Summer were tossing a Shane toy and Summer knocked The Monk and his fall decapitated him. I probably had the body and head sitting around here for two, three months.

Then, when it was Iowa Time and we were taking the sundial that had been in Der Bingle and his brother’s maternal grandpa’s back yard to LZP, I decided The Monk should go as well. He has a new job now and a new name: St. Bernardus. He’s named after the traditional Der Bingle/LZP sharing of St. Bernardus Christmas Ale. (It was saved from Christmas and imbibed on a sweltering Iowa afternoon and evening.)

See . . . his head is back on, thanks to LZP who is pictured here in his fez, which seems to be a cut-off gnome hat, or not.

Yesterday morning I went to Fort Wayne for my blood testing appointment and on the way home I pulled into a gas station that was advertizing $3.17 a gallon. I filled up. When I left I noticed the sign jumping to $3.54. YES!

Yesterday afternoon I took others to Fort Wayne for appointments and on the way there – on Anthony Blvd, where Concordia has its stadium on one side of the road and the the school on the other – teens were lined up to cross the street from practice. They watched the traffic and took off when the going was good. One pair of guys, though, walked right out in front of me and I had to stomp on the brakes. Later I discovered this jolt had caused a gas can in the trunk to fall over and start leaking. That ‘later’ was when we came out from the appointment and got in the car to drive home. Hot day but the windows were open.

I have been researching ways to deal with this. Each article cautions not to use a match. Okay. Makes sense. But there are no really good suggestions so I will be experimenting . . . I hope I just don’t get the spark of an idea. GROAN.