For someone born in 1948, such as I, AmeliaJake, there was a lot of talk in the history classrooms about the Dust Bowl. Descriptions of the the dust storms and mentions of the drifts of dust up against fence posts and barns and houses. But we still didn’t get, or at least I didn’t. I knew dust, but the truth of the matter was that it was not dust; it was fine gritty dirt – black sand. It had weight and it smothered both the animate and the inanimate. More bluntly, it smothered the living and covered things.

Yes, I’ve been reading a book: The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl by Timothy Egan. It is a far-ranging book, talking politics and government policies and agricultural methods. Sometimes I find it a little unfair to Hoover – well, maybe a lot so. Sometimes I find it a little hard on those who chose to pack up and leave the area. And in these sections it is often slow-going.

It is also slow-going in the segments that talk about the day-to-day, month-to-month and year-to-year accounts of individual battles with the dirt that filtered into everything, including the lungs and stomachs of people and animals. It also filled the eyes and blinded people. But that very plodding pace brings you closer  to understanding the horrible conditions – the situation went on and on and on. There’s no quick description and then moving on and the reader thinking, “Oh, yeah, I understand how terrible it was.”

This is a case where a thousand words are actually better than a picture. This is a book where you get a sense of the slow ticking of the clock, no fast forward to better times. Quick treatments such as that make me think of the Made-for-TV movies that take the viewer through first symptoms, diagnosis, treatment and coming out into the sunlight at the end of a dreaded illness. Two hours of your time and you think you understand. Think about enduring two hours in the middle of the dark night with crushing worries about an unknown future – night after night after night? That would be reality and that is what you grasp in this book about the Dust Bowl.

I am not done with it, but I am appreciating the plodding through, and I am learning.

I did not watch the debate last night, but I thought about it. And then today I saw Biden’s mocking grin . . . and I cleaned a lot on the porch AND THE GARAGE AND SHED.

I CAN’T STAND THAT MAN.

In a couple of hours I will leave to go to my final appointment with the surgeon who removed my hyperactive parathyroid, which was first suspected when the doctor who did my colonoscopy 18 months ago told me my calcium was definitely high.  This will be my third trip to Fort Wayne in as many days: Tuesday I took my granddaughter to an appointment close to the old Main Parkview Hospital (The Big House); yesterday my daughter-in-law had a “scoping” of both her esophagus and her colon at the new Parkview Regional Hospital and today, I am heading to Lutheran Hospital, which was new around 15 years ago and is constantly being expanded on. I don’t know if a new me has emerged by the surgery, but at least expansion has been stopped in both my parathyroid and my overall weight.

I was going to just slip on clean clothes and run on down, but I think I will scrub myself up good for this quick appointment – nothing wrong with leaving a good last impression. And, besides, I can claim later in the day, “I can’t do that sweat-inducing chore; I’m all spiffed up.” I don’t know if it will work, but I can try.

But I must re-embrace the sweat and keep exercising for my metabolism; I will, but today I just feel like taking a deep breath and getting ready for the continued journey. After all, it is not the true “finally” yet; at least I hope not.

I stepped on the scale tonight and groaned. Three months ago I would have looked at the same number and been ecstatic. Well, a little bit at a time . . . and adjusting to a YMCA schedule as opposed to early morning or late evening walking.

Turning the crank in my back so I can get my second wind at this weight loss business . . .hahahhahahahahahhaahhahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahah

Sorry. I’m a little giddy this evening; there’s no reason for it. If anything, I should be irritated by the book I’m reading – it’s a free spy book with the most beautiful and smartest and most talented spy-ess and “never mind how implausible, let’s just pretend” plot. Still, I have read about a third of it. And why? It’s probably akin to watching the grass grow.

I need to get another passtime – like watching Wanda Wrestling. I know, only a couple of people understand that remark, which is how I plan on staying alive. Oh, that I could post the picture . . .

This Thursday night is the VP debate and I don’t know if I can watch it because we all know:

AmeliaJake can’t stand Joe Biden.

That’s right; I can’t stand that man.  I might wind up with a TV on my foot, or more likely, I would try to reach in the TV and strangle the man. I am just going to have to break down and start citing comments made in Gail Sheehy’s book, Character,  America’s Search for Leadership.

Oh, yeah, don’t forget the fact that he graduated 76th out of 85 in his law school class, but claimed to be in the top half. When asked about it at one function, this interaction was reported:

The tape, which was made available by C-SPAN in response to a reporter’s request, showed a testy exchange in response to a question about his law school record from a man identified only as ”Frank.” Mr. Biden looked at his questioner and said: ”I think I have a much higher I.Q. than you do.’ (From this source)

Then, of course, here is the summary out of the horse’s (possibly we could substitute another animal) mouth.

I mean, that man just irritates me to no end. I can’t stand that man.

I don’t like to do windows, but I do them because I want to stay warm and cut down on heating costs. Yes, I am talking about putting plastic on my windows. Some think this is tacky; when the temperature is really down there and the wind is blowing, I really don’t care. Heck, I don’t care anyway.

I have this down to a science AND an art form, but it is boring work, and where the porch windows (11 of them) are concerned, a bit awkward. It is a long job because I have eight window panels in the den alone, eight in the living room and . . . well, a whole bunch lots of other places. They are crank out panels – wooden, with eight individual panes, but that is another story in itself.

I have storm windows that fit inside the crank outs . . .but do you have any idea how much annoying air can trickle through the glazing of 64 individual panes and then around the cut outs in the storm windows to accommodate the cranking mechanism? Well, it’s actually not a whole lot, but it’s annoying when you are trying to be cozy and don’t want to set the thermostat too high.

So, it is plastic film and hair dryer time . . . again.  3M is super, super clear and more expensive but it takes me through a couple of winters with a crystal clear, but snug, view through the den windows that make up about two walls and are above two sofas. The 30 foot living room can be fairly cozy too, with Scotch 3M between the storm windows and the 8-paned crank outs. There is another brand, in a green box, that is almost as clear and I use that on more out of the way windows.

Why am I writing these paragraphs about the minutiae of window draughts? Well, because I am shamelessly soliciting sympathy. Do  you know how overwhelming a veritable multitude of windows, plastic window film and  . . . wait for it . . . double stick tape can be – not to mention the hair dryer of shrinkage?

Now, there is part two: the new crank-out windows in the rooms that were added on. You know – the modern windows – the upgrades.  There are eight of them in the sitting room above the den and guess what? All that glass surface gets a chill to it. But those eight windows are in banks of four, and in each bank, each window is set back in its own little casing. Sixteen personally cut expanses of 3M plastic to fit in without showing.  Sigh.

Oh, I know drapes are a big help in cold climates and they are fine at night, but in daylight I like to take advantage of windows . . . so I’m biting the bullet and starting in on this task. Will I have any hair left after pulling some out in frustrations and accidents with double stick tape? It is questionable.

Okay, I’m a wimp and I vented. Oh rats! Slap my face for that unintentional pun. Not to hard . . . remember the wimp factor.

It is not supposed to frost tonight, but I am going to get up and go put a sheet over my tomatoes just in case – sort of a practice protecting move that will convince me that a sheet is not enough. Soon, I will just have to pick all the green ones and let them ripen in the house and eventually, there will be no more really “tomato tangy taste” until next summer. It’s tricky, this garden tomato thing; they taste so good, but eat too many and you will actually get sores on the inside of your mouth. You have to ration them out – no tomato marathons, but all the time  you are spacing your eating, time is running out.

Surely, there must be some Greek myth that deals with this dilemma. Or not. It is, I suppose, just irony.

A nurse told me after surgery last week that I had no stitches in my skin and I should leave the tape on my neck until it fell off. Seven days later it was still there, dirty and grungy. So I took it off; I had taken to picking at it the way I sometimes play with a necklace and, I grabbed a loose end and pulled.

Now I have a tiny line on my neck and for some reason am toying with the idea of using a black marker to make a dotted line all the way around with the words CUT HERE underneath it.

Hmm, I wonder about the grass at Mother’s . . . I think it needs mowing. Now did I think that all of a sudden because CUT HERE was staring me in the face. Ah, the wonders of the human mind . . . tricky little devil.

We had our own little People of Wal-Mart moment here today. Two people who obviously had issues with each other were  in adjacent aisles, turned the corner the aisles had in common and BOOM! Mocking  accusations flew back and forth loudly and, then,  one turned on the people surrounding them and told them to butt out of their private conversation.

Of course, I had already passed the area when everything went critical and had to do a backward eavesdropping. I was almost in the seasonal sectional and saw an inflated Rudolph Reindeer, so I took a picture to send to Der Bingle while I paused. Ah, yes, in front of me was a harbinger of good cheer and behind me was a session of folks trying to cook each other’s goose.

And then the day got sort of boring.

Summer and Cameron have Mother’s cat in the living room and I don’t hear Shane going crazy, so I am wondering, “Where is that dog?”  Perhaps he has decided to opt for covert responses to the cat instead of barking out some translation of “What is that cat doing now and why in heaven’s name would anyone want to hold her?”   Maybe there will be little catnip-baited traps showing up around here.

But, ah, speaking of showing up, Shane is here with me now, plopped on the floor but not in a sleep mode. He is acting quite nonchalant. I wonder if he has found access to super glue . . .