Yesterday there was winter on the windshield but I began to really notice that spring is on the ground. Nice, green, colorful and therefore not depressingly drab, grass. It also is showing signs of growing. I’m not going to complain about being in my 60’s and quite capable of mowing grass; let’s just say I would rave a little bit more about being in my 60’s and walking down to the beach. I don’t know if it is human nature or not, but it is apparently AmeliaJake nature.

I don’t remember if I mentioned it or not, but I, as the proprietress of the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, have decided I have to be rather firm with some of my regulars who like foldovers on the house, but don’t consider oiling the hinges on the screen door, sweeping the peanut shells off the floor, keeping the glasses nice and sparkly, or toting the remains of the day out to the trash can. I have started a private blog on which I post chores that need to be done. I even use pictures, although I haven’t yet added circles and arrows courtesy of photoshop yet. I will probably be a little more creative than circles and arrows when I get to that stage because I am the one who took a marker and wrote on the several pairs of scissors I had to buy to replace “missing” ones. Thing like: Take and Die, G’ma will kill you, a picture of a skull and crossbones, the word poison and so forth. So far, I am not seeing much success. Time to be motivational . . . I find myself chuckling. Maybe a little tweaking with the wi-fi? Missing DVD’s? As the days grow warmer I might announce one must earn air conditioning; I could make a sign over the door: Work will keep you Cool.

I have given them author privileges on the blog so they can let off steam or whatever; I think that is fair.

That about says it all. For now.

Shane is standing by the door; there is no way he is going outside again – since he was just out – because the big wind has brought rain that is pouring down. I do not want to smell wet dog; I do not want to have a wet dog shake on me. He feels the spirit of adventure, I think, seeing himself standing noble-like, face into the wind. I’m sorry Shane, but I’m just not up to letting you be your Walter Mitty self today. So go climb in the big leather chair, curl up and dream Lassie dreams.

I was awakened this morning by Alison telling me Tiffi has a sore on her tail; Summer had already let the idea of a sore on a tail grow into a fear of a tumor on the tail. So Alison and Robert took Tiffi to the vet he thinks it’s an infected sore on the tail. She got an antibiotic injection that keeps working for two weeks. Unfortunately, the vet mentioned if it hadn’t healed by then, he would do a biopsy. He just mentioned it – as a follow up thing.

I started thinking about a cat tail in a cast – the image just popped into my mind – but I am not going to mention it because I think Summer will not think it a humorous image. And that is not a mood we want her to be in.

Robert William was supposed to be born around May 1st, but I went to the hospital around 11 pm on April 16th, 44 years ago. ACK. He was born at 2:20 am. So it is tomorrow that I will post two pictures of someone less than a week old . . . and of two people a whole lot younger than they are now.

We decided today we could see the tops of some of the trees in the woods outside the nursing home window turning red. Beginning buds. Finally. And, please, nobody nip them in their buddingness. This winter has seemed to go on and on and on. Clara said as March finally drew to a close that it had felt as if it were always going to be March. I agreed.

There is not rhyme nor reason to it, and no one is really looking forward to hot sidewalks and humidity, but these months have seemed extraordinarily drab.  The woods have stood as sticks stuck in the ground, without even one evergreen among them. But now we have buds. I feel like we should go out with sparkling grape juice, raise our glasses and toast: This bud’s for you.

I’ll leave it at that – okay, just break my typing fingers now . . . before I promise (falsely) to turn over a new leaf.

I’ve probably written about this before, because, Heaven knows, I tend to just write from what is going through my head at the time, rather than for some betterment of mankind. (Choking on my own sarcasm) I also tend to go off on stream-0f-consciousness tangents, which is why I am having to force myself not to type a few remarks on the movie Heaven Knows, Mr. Alison.

Sometimes I think it would be sort of great if I could just say, “Oh, power that be, please let me do that over again.”  It has occurred to me that perhaps this does happen, but we don’t remember it or learn from and go ahead and do the same dumb thing again. And then maybe we have gone back and had something changed, but we just don’t know it, although dreams may sometimes hint at it.

Once, a long time ago,  a kid was standing in the hallway 15 feet behind me as I turned to shove a heavy sliding door closed. It balked and I pushed harder to no avail and got fed up and really sent it slamming toward the frame, but put my hand out to catch it before it could connect and shake the house down.

I looked down as my hand stopped the door less than a foot from the frame and saw that kid’s blond head sticking out. Who knew he could toddle so fast?  In a flash in my mind’s eye, I saw his head coming off and rolling onto the deck. To think of it now stops my thoughts cold and leaves me short of breath. I think then I may have spent the rest of the day in shock.

There have been times when I dreamed it happened that way – the way it didn’t. But what if it had? What if in a nano-second my being screamed  to make it not so, to give me that moment back – that moment when my hand shot out to stop the door?

I don’t know where I am going with this, perhaps I am steering myself to realize how many times the lamenting  “if only” preface to events should also be thankfully  applied  to non-events – that I need to understand that there is a whole lot for which to be grateful. I not only need to to understand it, I need to remind myself of it everyday.

Oh, I have that wrong; I was thinking of toddlers and trains. Der Bingle apparently was thinking of cows and cud-chewing when he sent me this article. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it here, but I have made the point – repeatedly – that my humorous stint at chewing my food 35 times proved to be quite useful when it came to losing weight. It was also a test of hunger: Do I really want to take the time to chew this 35 times?  And while I will give you that 35 times might be a bit over the top, taking time to chew did highlight the flavor.

The article does mention a downside to extended chewing – the atmosphere at a dinner party. Mostly munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, munch, . . .

I believe Der Bingle may have cows on his mind because he suggested another topic for exploration: Cow tipping. No, not what we’ve been talking about here, but rather, how much do cows tip when the go out to dinner. I’m sure cows have plenty of suggestions about other subjects as well: green pastures, well-being (contentedness, dontcha know), ice cream, minimizing environmental gasses and so on.

My hair is fine with no body at all, and as straight as all get out. And now I have been pulling it up and putting it in a topknot and letting it just sit there. Der Bingle says it is my mother coming out. More than likely, it is my mother’s genes coming out. Her hair was fine and straight and also thin.  My hair is a little thicker, or so she said, mainly because my dad had a really good crop of the stuff. No Joe Biden look to him. Oops, nothing is sacred when it comes to poking at JB . . . who thinks he is JC.

Okay, back on track.  There’s not much you can do with limp stuff on your head, and then you get older and you’ve got limp stuff and wrinkles. I’m tired of it. I’m just going to keep scooping it up and putting in on the top of my noggin. Or I could get it cut short and permed and have one of those really tightly curled helmets on my head. AAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!