Jerry was on the run. It was a life or death operation. Nothing would stand in front of his escape. Not those red lights, not those slow moving cars, and certainly not those children playing in the street. The IRS man was coming to get him, and now so were the cops.

Jerry had a plan; he would make his way to Kansas. Why, Kansas you ask? He was going to get his wish granted by the great and powerful Oz. People told Jerry that this was just a work of fiction and that it wasn’t real, but Jerry knew the truth. He would finally get a brain, heart, and courage.

The police following Jerry down the highway had grown in size and now ten cars were chasing him down the highway. Jerry while going close to 90 MPH opened his window and shouted, “I’ll make it to Narnia!” BUT . . .Jerry’s car came slowly to a stop because Jerry had forgotten to fill the tank with gas this week. Jerry was then arrested for speeding, public endangerment, and resisting arrest.

Jerry was now behind bars awaiting trial.

To be Continued…

This is my route:

It looks like the waterway that runs north of the LaGrange County house – Crooked Creek. I looked closely at that little heartbeat-like blip at Lafayette and thought maybe about going south and cutting over, but there are a few tricky turns so I guess I’ll see if I can get my phone GPS to remind of this path.

I think I go close to the Tippecanoe Battleground – You know, the Old Tippecanoe and Tyler too place. There’s a fence around it – or there used to be when I was young and when my folks took me there, one kid looked at the fence and a marker where one man had died and said, “Too bad he didn’t make it over the fence.” The things we remember.

Yesterday I mowed in LaGrange; it was in the low 70’s when I started and though I wasn’t actually whistling while I worked (truthfully,rode on a mower), I was upbeat enough to tackle the dreaded front yard first. You have to go around so many things out front and then there are bushes that keep you from going around any closer than their bushed-out circumference; I did try to get closer at ground level, but most of the time wound up pushing branches out of my face and holding onto my hat.

Oh, yeah, the west side yard is also a pain since there are more bushes and the big rocks Mother put out, not to mention the rocks that have been there forever – the foundation stones for the old horse barn, which was gone by the time I was born. But I got it done and then I moved on to old garden part: I start out going around the evergreens in the middle and just keep going around and around and around and around – until I get to the grape arbor and then I have to adapt. Sigh.

Still, I got it done and was happy to see that the back expanse had not grown much because it had not rained. HOWEVER, when I mowed it last week for the first time there was some tall grass that just fell over and I expected it to be blown into the cornfield with the inevitable wind. Well, no. It had not been windy and I basically had hay lying in large areas. I mowed through the piles in a pattern that looked like plate of spaghetti and then, finally, chugged back to the shed.

And I got off . . . and felt a little woozy. It was 86. Not 73 anymore. Kansas had come to me.

On top of that, the mosquitoes were out and I am a mosquito magnet. I think my repellant was expired so I am going to go in search of a new spray bottle of super Deep Woods or something with the picture of a bug and a skull & crossbones on it.

To round off the day, before I flopped on the sofa, I made two cemetery pots. I had forgotten how dirty dirt is; the sink, the floor and every crevice in my hands were caked with Scott’s potting soil and Miracle-Gro soil supplement. My hands are bacterially-soaped clean, but still dirty; I’ll scrub them after I get the next three pots done . . . or is it four pots? Then, of course, there is the single geranium to go by my dad’s grave for Miss Alice, whose ashes are buried above his casket.

I have lamented about being the last one – the one left with the Memorial Day pots that have increased in number – but I need to realize that is the way it should be. All these pots are for generations before mine; there are those who will be putting flowers on children’s graves and that is really worth lamenting.

Summer is sitting here with me and I asked her if she had anything to suggest for a post topic.

Jerry was sitting in his home, buying things on Amazon, buying things on multiple cards – he’s become a shopping addict. And while he’s doing this, his sister Mary comes in and asks him what he’s doing and he says, “Oh, nothing, sister. Where are  your credit cards? There’s been a series of credit card thefts, so I have to make certain you are protected.”

This is where she stops listening and goes to feed the goldfish named Flounder.

“Are  you listening to me, sister?”

Mary replies, “I’m not listening to any of your nonsense.  You’ve been living here for four months, free-loading and I’m tired of paying your bills.”

Then a doorbell rings and Mary goes to answer it, and Jerry looks out the window and sees that it is an IRS man. He says, “I’m going to the bathroom.” When he gets into the bathroom, he flushes the toilet and then climbs out the window and ducks and hides in the bushes while Mary is letting the IRS man into the house.

Jerry gets into the car where he keeps a spare key and drives away as fast as he can and dings the IRS man’s car: he is planning to go to Kansas.

To be continued (Translated as, “That’s all I got, Grandma.)

I have bags of mulch, some emptied out, some waiting for emptying . . .  and I making them my minions in the war against weeds. This morning, I dug out one ugly, big-leafed fellow that was the size of a pizza pan from under the blue spruce. It was behind the clubhouse and I guess it had a “growth spurt”  . . .  I was afraid maybe it would start eating me, not getting enough food from the soil.

I am more boring than usual today since I am mulch-obssessed.  I am practically singing The Mulch Song, which doesn’t exist except for my chanting of  Mulch Mulch Mulchies Mulch Mulch Mulch Mulchies Mulch Mulch Mulch Mulchies Mulch Mulch Mulch Mulchies Mulch . (It’s similar to that old stand-by from Sesame Street, “Street, street, street” sung to the tune of On Wisconsin.

It is humid and still outside and I’m wondering if we’re going to have some wind and rain and maybe thunder and lightning . . . Oh, no, what if we have a tornado and the mulch blows away!!?!

Yesterday the temperature got up to 87 when I went out to get plants for my Memorial Day urn  assembly; if you remember my whining about mowing on Sunday, then you know that was at least 43 degrees within 72 hours. (And Sunday, the wind made it feel like 37.)  I came home with geraniums, asparagus ferns, spikes, and trailing ivy and plopped them down on the patio table in the garage. It’s an old, old, old Brown & Jordan table with the criss-cross top, so I can water the plants and let it go right down into the garage drain. This doesn’t sound like much, but, to me, it’s, if not a big deal, then at least, a little blessing.

When I got inside, I striped off my jeans and long-sleeved shirt and hopped (literally) into shorts and stuck my arms and neck through the holes in a sleeveless soft top . . . and then I drank iced tea – peach flavored, dontcha know. By early evening I was a little sleepy and I dozed. I dozed my way through the cell phone and house phone ringing. Then I woke up, thought I’d never sleep during the night and lay down to wake up in daylight.

That’s when I saw I had missed calls from Der Bingle and Quentin. They both left voicemails: Der Bingle’s pointed out other people here need to keep their cell phones turned on and ANSWER THE  . . .  HOUSE PHONE; Quentin’s was short and nice and sounding like himself – although a bit stuffed up. He said his snout’s doing well and he feels okay. He’ll get some of the stuff out of his nostrils on Friday and should be good to go for work by Monday.

Since he’s an IT guy at his workplace, I imagine they’ll be glad to see him back.

I don’t know if there will be any snout pictures or not. I think his face is bruised up, but all should eventually look the same and the view the surgeon has should be much better.  Now the main hope is that is doesn’t get a cold and have to SNEEZE. Ack! What a thought.

Quentin had a bone spur removed from his nasal/sinus area today. We have word that he is doing okay  – although there is a suspicion his snout will temporarily be enlarged and his eyes those of a raccoon.  This should mean no more lingering and deep-seated  sinus infections, but right now, I think it means a big OUCH.

Shane is sending good vibes.

Because circumstances threw me off the LaGrange mowing schedule, the grass was high – and in the north part, it was the first mowing of the year. So . . . I had to do it AND IT WAS CLOUDY, COLD AND WINDY. It felt like 37 and I wore a shirt, a sweatshirt, a windbreaker over it . . . and gloves. The really distinctive aspect of my appearance was both hoods were up and with strings pulled tight. My face was a circle of two eyes, nose and mouth – not even a chin.

Because the grass was high and, in some parts not previously mowed this season, I had to go very slowly to baby the motor and not be surprised by over-the-winter debris hiding under the green waves.  That translates into about nine hours of chugging.

Yes, I am trolling for pity . . . Rose frowned – not an easy task for her – and told me to buck up and shut up.

It was supposed to be somewhat sunny and about 60 in LaGrange today. Well, it’s not going to be that. I am donning jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt. Guess I won’t have to worry about sunscreen – I should be concerned with goggles because it is going to be    w      i       n     d     y. 

Well, if I don’t get started now, I will just stay sitting; I know myself.

Some days are just off-kilter. Today was one of them. But, like other days, it is passing. So, then, we come to tomorrow . . . and it is supposed to be sunny, if a little cool. Cool would be good because circumstances have kept me from mowing – and I mean THE BIG MOWING, not this little pansy stuff here.

Yes, it is Mother’s Day, and, yes, it is Sunday; but I’ll be taking care of Mother’s yard, and, following her example, not roaring a motor during the worship hour at the Methodist Church just down the road.

I told someone a couple of weeks ago that I first started “mowing” that yard before I can remember – following behind my grandfather with my little toy mower. I said, “And I’m still doing it.” She asked, “Not with the same mower?” No, but, you know, the view is sort of the same. And come to think of it, I won’t be wearing short, short seersucker pants with ruffles on the butt. Maybe, though, I’ll wear my Lands End hot pink utility, convertible pants. STOP! Don’t visualize it without bracing yourself first.

I’ll read a bit now and then curl up and doze the night away, perhaps dreaming of a laser mower – one shaped like a golf club with the laser beam emitting from the head, complete with controls for distance . . . don’t want to  – oops – chop a tree down.