When I was little, I would not eat a tomato. YUCK! Then one day I discovered I loved them and one year I planted some and ate so many my both developed sores from the acidity nature of the little red guys. This year has been a slow year for tomato maturation in Indiana . . . but finally, they are nice and red and juicy.

I have been eating them and each one tastes good, but that magnificent zest is no longer there. No more do I put a big old slice in my mouth and suddenly want to put my head down on the kitchen counter in a moment of ecstasy.

I am reminded of my father in the summer eating area, quoting William Wordsworth:

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes, 10
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair; 15
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath pass’d away a glory from the earth.

I was in my teens then, I think . . . or just a wee bit older. Who knew I’d find the truth of that in a tomato?

Because I have an active cold that is keeping me from visiting people and because  sudden onset of diarrhea episodes are keeping me at home totally, I sat down and decided to try getting the pickle card video posted.

Maybe you didn’t need to know my reason . . .

But anyway:

Well, I had to go to YouTube:

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I must research how to put imovie on blog . . .

Rats. It didn’t work. Let’s try this and it it doesn’t work, just know I have thrown myself under a leaning cow.

Actually, this post could be titled What I Found in Daddy’s Wallet or Robert Allen’s Picture or Forever Relationships.

I suspect, though, that the most accurate title would be, Oh, the timing of  it . . .

Patrick Alexander passed away this month at the age of 38 after a long and valiant fight against cancer. His father, as I have noted before was my father’s nephew. Robert Allen Alexander was named after my dad and his dad – Robert Pershing Grismore and Allen Alexander. I think Daddy was always self conscious about it and therefore always called him Robert Allen, although most people call him Bob – the same way that he always called his grandson Robert William, even though most people call him Rob.

I haven’t been able to make peace with Patrick’s early death and the loss felt by his mother and father and his wife, Katie. This morning I sent Robert Allen’s sister, Lana, an email to that effect and that I just didn’t know how to put what I feel into words. She very thoughtfully sent me an immediate reply that they knew I had been with them throughout the journey.

An hour or so later I got the urge to straighten up some piles of stuff I had put on a bookcase. Jobs like that are not in my nature – I am a clutterer. But there I was on my knees reaching and spreading things around me. As I pulled out one small box of clippings, my father’s wallet fell onto my lap and out of it slid an old picture, extremely worn from being transferred from wallet to wallet to wallet.

I recognized it right away as Robert Allen; it was so worn and soft that it felt like cloth in my hand and one little piece flaked off, as other pieces had obviously already done over the years.

I don’t know if it is a sign; I don’t know if Daddy was telling me that spirits never die and that his is looking over his nephew and grandnephew. I feel that maybe it is just that, and this is one of those times when “feeling” is more real than “knowing”.

Shane and I have been resting – he with his snout snuggled between his paws and me with my mind closed for maintenance.

Okay, here’s a picture of the little friend who arrived in the LZP box; she’s named Wild and Woolie, but we think maybe, just maybe, she is Wily Wooly.

Last evening, after supper and our Solitaire losses, after Kathryn’s shower and her being tucked into bed, after Clara had been settled for the night in her special chair with her blankets just the way she likes them, I got up from where I was sitting and reading between them and quietly eased my way over to the light above Kathryn’s bed and clicked it from its lower setting to the OFF position.

As I had side-stepped between Kathryn’s bed and the wall, and scooted around the end of her bed, I found Clara smiling at me as I reclaimed my chair, our heads now quite close together.

You stay sometimes until we’re both asleep, don’t you?

Yes.

Do I snore?

No, I’ve not heard you.

Well, I wondered. You can’t hear yourself if you are asleep and no one is going to tell you.

I snore; Kathryn snores.

People ask me if it doesn’t bother me that she snores and I tell them ‘No, it makes me feel comfortable that she’s sleeping and I know she’s okay.’

Clara and I smiled at each other and then I sat back down for a few more minutes and watched the last of the daylight fade from the window and soon heard Kathryn snoring and Clara breathing evenly. I left, turning at the door to look back at two ladies who have shown me grace and wisdom.

We had some friends-to-be knocking on our backdoor, seeking sanctuary with our pasture. The little red-striped legged folks here open the door and welcome them in, because along with peanut butter, they really like ice cream. I must be honest, it is just not their craving for the iced treat that motivates them; I’m certain they also are filled with the milk of human kindness.

I suppose some think those who wear red and white striped socks are strange . . . you know, the old fuddy duddies, but it has served a good purpose since our moo friends have heard the quote: I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Well, enough of that for an introduction. I was going to picture two newcomers, but the resolution on one of the pictures did not suit me so I will today just show you two pictures of the same new grazer and tomorrow you may meet Wild and Wooly.

This is Chubb Cow. Alison showed up with her yesterday morning and put her in my care. It’s kind of hard to capture her essence in a photo – but here are two attempts.

What you can do with numbers and statistics . . . sigh, sigh and sigh. I haven’t written about global warming and I’m not doing so now. I’m writing on something disturbing in the presentation of a supposed news article. THIS ONE. That would be the one that starts off with these paragraphs:

Scientists are more convinced that human activity is behind the increase in global temperatures since the 1950s, which has boosted sea levels and the odds of extreme storms, according to a leaked draft of an upcoming U.N. report.

“It is extremely likely that human influence on climate caused more than half of the observed increase in global average surface temperature from 1951 to 2010,” according to a summary of the draft obtained by CNN. “There is high confidence that this has warmed the ocean, melted snow and ice, raised global mean sea level and changed some climate extremes in the second half of the 20th century.”

Those conclusions come from the upcoming report of the U.N. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, the fifth in a series of multiyear reports seen as a benchmark on the subject. The panel’s last report, in 2007, concluded that it was 90% certain that rising temperatures were due to human activity; the new draft raises that figure to 95%.

That’s my red to point of that if we are in a period of climate change, then about half of it is do to something other than human influence. However, this is not stressed; what the writer and editor emphasis is the 90-95% certainty factor. I think we will see this repeated. This is wrong; it is an insult to science.

Consider this scenario: Let’s say of all surgery deaths, over half are caused by incompetent surgeons. Now if you stress the idea that there is a 95% chance that this is right – not mentioning that the percentage applies to only 50% of the whole –  you are going to get people to assume that if their surgeon is one of the best, their odds of surviving surgery are close to perfect. You would be putting the close to 50% chance of dying into very small print.

It seems to me that for years some have been claiming that humans ARE responsible for global warming, period. Now, in reality, they are saying that humans are responsible for half. One might wonder if they actually are backing away from the initial all inclusive claim.

The gummy worms were accompanied by a Gummy Octopus bag:

As you can see, the bag announced a new look to the little guys – the fellows so gifted to be shoplifters if only there wasn’t the water issue. These two are on top of my Kindle; having a lot of arms makes it easy to turn pages . . . Oh! Silly, Silly me. There are no actual pages.

And here is the coup d’grace:

Yes, from Rose’s on special place. She’s not really hiding in the bag. In fact, it isn’t even our own Wild, Wonderful Rose; she is visiting at the Ohio Redoubt so she asked a friend to be a hair double.

I am an eclectic framer. I have framed menus and vintage magazine ads and even on of the old Banana Republic Safari Bags. I think I’m going to frame this one because there’s nothing like having a wild rose on your wall.