Monthly Archives: October 2013

Just Me - AmeliaJake, Special Memories

Oh, my goodness. 2008.

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I surprised myself. Mostly by this: Suzanna Dorkeaux had become one of the wisps of Southern family history who every now a then appear in shadowy form on the outskirts of a evening lawn party. My mind . . . it is an odd one.

From the old blog:

So what dork is doing this? O(h)

Some things I skim over and Dorko was one of them; that’s the last name of the new head guy at Lutheran Hospital. Then I saw it again . . . and it registered. Now, I feel for this man, I really do. I know he is a very successful man, and no doubt quite well off financially. I don’t know how old he is or when the term “dork” entered the vernacular, but it is probably not something is is happy about.

Excuse me, I am going to do a Google search. Ah, here it is – a reference to the word: DORK, and here is part of that entry verbatim:

Dork is a term used to describe someone who has unusual interests and is, at times, silly or stupid. A dork can also refer to someone who acts on his own motives without caring about his peers’ opinions. The term occasionally implies stupidity, though perhaps less often than it once did, and it can paradoxically imply an unadmirable (bookish, academic) intelligence, much like the terms “nerd” and “geek.”

. . . The adjectival form of dork is dorky, a word that was mainstream enough by 1971 to appear in a Peanuts comic strip

Oh, that 1971 mainstream reference means he has been dealing with it for some time; maybe it is the reason for his success. I know, I know, it probably represents a proud family – quite possibly of Dutch descent. There is nothing wrong with Dorko as a last name, not really. But, gee, it does kind of take you by surprise in a headline. He could have taken a French bent and changed the spelling to Dorkeaux and moved to Louisiana; heck, that kind of sounds like a name in a novel:

The dew lingered on the vines growing along the edge of the veranda where the morning shade kept the sun’s heat at bay. Mr. Dorkeaux always took his coffee there when weather allowed, often gazing across the lawn that rolled down to the river where Suzanna had first climbed in the boat that eventually spirited her away.

Ever so polite detectives had come and asked questions, left, returned and finally disappeared into the the same river mist that had closed in on the scene all those years ago. Suzanna Dorkeaux had become one of the wisps of Southern family history who every now a then appear in shadowy form on the outskirts of a evening lawn party. It was whispered that her travels – as Mr. Dorkeaux referred to them – had taken her to places where she could find no rest, no peace. And so, she was drawn back to her marriage home – Dorky Park.

Oh, no, no, no, no, nix that idea.

Of course, as I said, Joe Dorko has done well for himself.

Maybe my last name should have been Bozo.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

Gadzooks!

I just wrote about taking more direction in my life – well, I wrote about it in so many words – and then I find myself thinking somewhat later: “Ah, maybe I should be DOING something.” See I didn’t think my complaining post through; I was just venting about being someone running from hole to hole in the dike, although I think my original reference was to dealing with downward-rolling balls of various levels of disaster.

But now, dear me, pushing Publish didn’t make it go away. So I am whining because I will either have to maintain the status quo which forces me into action or DO SOMETHING ON MY OWN MOTIVATION. I should have just kept my fingers still and just hum-drummed myself to the next problem and relaxed a little under my afghan. Now I have put myself in the position of putting my moving limbs where my mouth is. It’s like an assignment. Shoot.

Okay, I’ve got to make this seem like a puzzle, a riddle. It’s got to be something I figure out and not plod through, if I am to get started. That will involve lying to myself because there is always some plodding. Sometimes I do manage to see the plodding as Okay, just another try . . . okay, one more . . . maybe if I turn it this way . . .

However, I think this is a case where lying to myself is going to be the crucial part of the endeavor. Most everyone knows I believe it is all right to lie to yourself as long as you know you are lying to yourself. I know, I know – that cancels everything out, but if you say it real fast, it sometimes works. I think it is some phenomenon in physics or insanity.

On the other hand, when you are faced with an assignment, I have found that thinking about planning on how you are going to do it sometimes produces the feeling you have actually done something. It’s not a good thing in the long run, but it helps you stay warm under the afghan for a bit longer.

Say, you don’t think taking the time to write this post was a delaying action, do you . . . Oh, wow! I feel another What About Bob? moment coming on.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

After looking back

After reading some of the posts – at random – from my old blog, I am starting to get the idea I should take my life back. Well, I mean I think I am getting too involved in trying to keep up with messes instead of dedicating myself to creating my own. Oh, let me think about this . . . Could my former insouciant mess-making be at the core of some of these present avalanching MESS-BALLS that keep rolling at me. Oh, wow! Could that really be!? Gosh, hey, do you think so? (Am I channelling What About Bob? here? Who cares.)

My usual response these days: Whatever.

Last evening I read a cheap Kindle book about extremely capable old people in the workplace being fired and then being recruited by a company to have intensive surgery and re-enter with workforce looking 20 years younger and still having their vast experience. The main character was 55. It was not a cheery evening and I seriously thought about not continuing, but as more and more “young” people turned out to be “oldies” I was curious about the ending. I should not have been; it was written by an author who should have simply written, “Sorry, I ran out of ideas.” Instead, he basically wrote, Whatever. I suppose there is a lesson in this Live by the whatever, die by the whatever.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, Special Memories

September 2005 – Who knew?

I look at random at an archived month at my old blog and let myself be surprised by what I find. I think by doing that, rather than reading through in order, it is likely for the memory to vivid, popping out of nowhere as it does, than being foreshadowed by post written immediately before.

This one is from September, 2005. Oh, I forgot, you already know that.

MOVIE AT THE STRAND

I went to the movie “Flightplan” starring Jodie Foster last night at the Strand. She looked different to me, and not just older: perhaps her face is thinner. I found myself paying more attention to her than the actual movie, trying to determine why she didn’t “seem herself” to me. Anyone interested can read Roger Ebert’s review here. ; I wasn’t as impressed as he was still I appreciated that it was more of an Alfred Hitchcock movie than one dependent on bad words and nudity. Actually, the only thing that might bother someone is seeing a corpse in a coffin.

*******

HERE IS AN ARTICLE I WROTE ABOUT GOING TO A MOVIE AT THE STRAND WITH MY GRANDSON published in  . . .

The name of the movie was “Secondhand Lions.” And “we two” were in the audience, each with a large cola in the drink holder and a large bucket of popcorn between us.

I am the elder of this two-person club, by a good 44 years. I am the grandma. Specifically, I am the grandma who likes good books and good movies and has always been drawn to stories where characters try to pull themselves up to what is right.

I am the grandma with scenes in her head: Humphrey Bogart in the rain in Casablanca telling Ingrid Bergman about how if the plane leaves without her she’ll regret it – maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of her life.

I remember Gregory Peck leaving the courtroom in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I can see David Niven’s quiet determined bravery in “55 Days in Peking.”

But let us not think of me – this grandma – as a gentle soul of soft voice and compassionate character.

No, I am also the grandma who looks at a refrigerator door standing open and yells, “The next person who doesn’t shut this door is going to . . . “ Well, let’s not go into what exactly it is that I yell; let us settle on the notion that I can be pretty inventive.

I am the grandma who looks over her glasses and inquires, “Now exactly how long have you known about this project . . . that is due tomorrow?”

Now the younger partner on this “we two” team is 10, soon to be 11 . . . and he is Cameron, the grandson. He likes video games and action movies and is constantly badgering me for permission to build up forts and such in a computer game called “Stronghold” which is installed on MY computer.

However, he is also the boy who gets up before school to turn on the Animal Planet Channel or the History Channel. And once, he and I stayed up way past our bedtimes to watch “Attila the Hun.”

So when I saw Cory Renkenberger, manager of the Strand in the Do-It-Center and he said “Secondhand Lions” was coming the following week, it got my attention. I remembered the magazine reviews I’d read and I thought that any movie where Michael Caine and Robert Duvall star as two old eccentrics who spent 40 years of derring-do in Africa and are now hosting a great-nephew for a summer should be pretty good.

Actually, maybe too good to see alone . . . and maybe too good to see with a brood. So the idea came to me of “we two” – Cameron and I.

We went on a school night – homework done first – and were first in the theater. And this takes us back to the beginning . . . in the theater with the drinks and popcorn.

While waiting for the movie to start, we munched our way about three-quarters of the way down the popcorn container. Cameron looked at me and said, “Why, Grandma, I think you’ve outdone yourself.”

I got us a refill.

The lights went down . . . the movie came on. We watched through the exciting parts, the funny parts, the sad parts and the part where Robert Duvall gives a portion of his “how to be a man” speech.

He told the boy there are just some things you ought to believe in – honor and courage and virtue . . . some things you just need to believe are true – such as people being basically good.

I didn’t look over at the boy sitting next to me, but I thought of him – of us sitting there together in a small town theater . . . and I remembered another movie I had seen over a decade ago –“Shadowlands”

That movie was based on aspects of C.S. Lewis’ life. Anthony Hopkins played the title role and he spoke of feeling happiness lay in what was over the crest of a hill, around the bend of a road. Then later in the movie he reconsiders and talks about happiness being “here and now and that’s enough.”

I feel the pull of the crest of a hill, the bend in a road . . . but in that theater, in this little town, the here and now of “we two” was enough.

 

Just Me - AmeliaJake, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

Fall break ends . . . two-hour-fog-delay

FROM ROSE: Warning. . . warning . . . warning. AmeliaJake just typed mindlessly along until I was able to intervene.

Ah, we have managed to avoid the really traumatic back-to-the-routine of early morning chaos with the phone ringing at around 6am to leave the message: Foggie Delay. Okay, it didn’t say that; it was a very controlled recorded voice announcing the delay. I don’t know if they said fog or not – delay was the only word we heard.

Because East Noble is a fairly large geographical district, thanks to the consolidations of the 60’s and 70’s, fog, snow, icy roads can be way down in the southern part of the county and they call it system wide. I once interviewed the man who made the “go, no go” call for an article that was intended to explain to people the policy behind the decision. This guy got up at 4 am every morning and drove the known “tell” spots on the routes – well, unless it had been an obviously clear night with not indication of anything pending. I think there are the “ice curves” and the “fog dips” and the degree of still falling snow on county roads vs. the plows’ work. I’m boring you. I suppose it is a hazard associated with reading this blog. Does anyone need an early morning boring warning call?

Der Bingle in Ohio has snow that is sticking to the grass. He called to sound the alarm, although, being east of us, he is usually the one who gets the alarm from us. Soon we will be seeing Christmas inflatables, I am certain. I always like to end on a cheerful note. (That’s not really true but it’s the sarcasm I was after.)

But I am not ending because I just realized I had forgotten to mention the Halloween inflatables on Indiana 9 opposite the military school and marking the corner where I turn to head to the LaGrange House. And, of course, it is important that you know this . . . Stream of consciousness is often not a good thing . . . so now I am ending before I venture into those areas where angels fear to tread.

THIS IS ROSE AND I AM TAKING CONTROL OF AJ UNTIL SHE CAN CONTROL HER BRAIN/FINGER CONNECTION. Yes, it’s a hard job, but someone has to do it before the mob gets too irritated.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

So, one day, another parking lot

I went to Fort Wayne today, dropped someone off at a clinic door and waited in the parking lot. I do this whenever we come here because this is the view looking east: Camera looking east.

parking lot east

The temperature was right at 50 and the sun was in an out. I was wearing a sweater, a long skirt and boots and getting outside of the car and just breathing and seeing was a treat.

Were I to look south, I would see an enormous low area of grass; it’s a flood plain and I didn’t take a picture today for no reason, other than that the person’s appointment was quite short.
I did have time to take a selfie: I call it Camera looking west.
and this is me with the camera looking west

We came straight home – no GoodWill – because she was feeling poorly. Now that’s a word I haven’t really used before. My paternal grandmother used it occasionally; I wonder if it is one of those words that pop out of your genetic code when older age turns them on. It kind of makes me shudder to realize I used it. Who knows what is going to start spicing up – or down – my language.

Oh, yes, I don’t remember if I mentioned I commissioned a scarf to be knitted, only it turns out it is called a shawl. See, how it creeps up on you. Well, at least you don’t need teeth for peanut butter, although I’m not certain about the extra crunchy.

Fall break ends tomorrow so you may hear screaming and complaining, but it won’t be from me. You might hear, “I don’t know where YOU put your backpack.” That would be me.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, Special Memories

More from the past

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Every since I found my old forgotten blog, I’ve been looking back and surprising myself. When I got to the end of this piece, I am reminded that I’ll never change.

SHIPSHEWANA INDIANA ADDRESS

The little village where I lived as a baby – my first home – one time had its own post office: Scott, Indiana. Then it was closed and when letters came to the house, they bore the address R.R. #1 Howe, Indiana. Not to confuse anyone more, but Howe had been called Lima when my grandmother graduated from high school in 1900. Anyway, by the time I got around to knowing the address, it was Howe . . . for awhile. Then, one day I found out we were going to be transferred to the Shipshewana post office.

At that time Shipshewana was not a well-known flea market and Amish shops attraction. Having the address change meant that I would have to spell Shipshewana to everyone who needed to know – college staff, telephone operators, and so on. I used to break it down: Ship . . . she . . . wana. Now that Shipshewana address has national attention and on auction days, the roads are so clogged into town that my mother has to use the back way in if she is asked to help a friend at a sale. Keep in mind here that the “front way” in is narrow roads with a “funny bump” that made my stomach jump when I was little and, in fact, still does.

So . . . I am thinking I should go into some sort of business with my mother – with her address, we would have a step up on things. We could even copy the old tintype picture to show we were “authentic.” The problem is figuring out what product we would market.

This has been a stumbling block . . . but I will keep thinking. How about storybook quilts – a person sends in some facts about different aspects of their lives and dreams and I piece them together into a “quilt-book?” Or they could send in a list of the things they have done wrong and I could write a story that would be a guilt-book.

Oh, I guess I forgot to sound the bad pun warning. Sorry.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

I found a line of drawers

I was at the LaGrange house, looking around for something and I noticed – after heaven knows how many years – that this wall mounted cookbook-based bookcase had a row of  little drawers along the top of it.  (I’m betting it was the cookbook thing that had me shying away from that piece of furniture.)

Anyway, I opened them, And found recipes . . . of course. In my mother’s handwriting and numerous clippings from newspapers. No wonder I like restaurants with honky-tonk or roadhouse themes – eating in a nice dining room with four star food is, I whine, like eating at home at Mother’s . . . every day of the week.

I believe I was dreadfully spoiled and did not appreciate my mother in this area for a long, long time.

But, on with the drawers: Not only were there recipes, but an Erma Bombeck (remember her) article on too much cleanliness, as in housekeeping. I also found two snapshots from 1949 of Daddy, Great Aunt Sara and me and one of someone who I think is in my family but from a long, long time ago and with an indiscernible background. Come to think of it, the 1949 pics are from a long, long time ago. I am going to scan some of the recipes and maybe I’ll post them here. There’s one for Homemade ice cream, but I’m not sure if it’s Mother’s usual one or another one she thought she might try. I’m thinking she had the usual one memorized, but then again maybe she wrote it down for someone else.

Just Me - AmeliaJake, Special Memories, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

Another look back – Sarah Grismore

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My mother died on October 17, 2009; I thought about it all day and am still thinking about the days following. When I happened on that old website of mine, I found this post about her:

I am one of those people who reads – a lot; fortunately for me, when they talk of addictions they don’t call readers addicts – they call them bookworms. I have learned to adapt my reading to what is going on around me after all these years, but sometimes I revert to my primal state. Tonight was one of those times. After several questions from my grandson, I asked loudly, “Can’t you see I am READING?”

That brings my granddaughter out to where I am to quote what I said to her the night before: “If you can’t ignore people talking, you are not a good reader.” And, of course, I had to answer that there is a difference between people talking and being asked a direct question. But then, to her anything her brother asks is not worthy of note and I am wrong not to ignore him as well

So, I get them off my back . . . and then I get a phone call. Okay, fine, we’re talking, talking, talking and then that call is over and I settle in. I always call my mother in the evening to make certain she is all right; tonight she called me and after a while I told her I was reading, almost to the end of the book. Finally, finally she gets off the line.

Then 30 minutes later the phone goes off on the table, playing Honky Tonk Blues and vibrating against the wood. And I knew. I really, really knew. I answered with a gritted out hello and I heard, “Did you finish your book and then . . . and this is from a notoriously grouchy lady . . . laughter.

This is that lady, in case you don’t remember:

 

Just Me - AmeliaJake, The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

This day is up for grabs

UPDATED*

Well, not really. I think I’m going to LaGrange County . . . after the dryer man comes, Now there’s a thrill; I have yet to go peek into the laundry room and see if there are dirty clothes I have to haul out and that knowledge underscores my sarcasm in “thrill”.

Gosh, I’m in a crabby mood today. Really crabby. If I could draw a crab, I would; but I can’t, so visualize it . . . big old claws smeared with peanut butter.

*UPDATE RIGHT BELOW.

Yes, down here. I think I’m not so crabby now, maybe it was the peanut butter – or perhaps the aspirin and Vitamin D and these other pills. It is possible that I thought, “Crabby is no way to do your first official Senior year, dear.” It’s amazing, I am going to go to my grave with some sort of word association thingie: I just thought that as I reached senior status, the country was getting more senor strata. And, of course, what is the difference between the two? Could it be my narcissistic “I”?

Oops, maybe the crabbiness is not abating, just slipping into the shadows. Well, whatever the reason, I was able to deal with the dog throwing up and my almost stepping in it with concern about Shane and not with a loud “What now?”

Actually, the now is the “Now he is six,”reality. M it’s time to get a lot more cautious about what he is fed and to ease into the rice diet. On the other hand, I find it difficult for him to have trouble with a Laura Lean drained ground beef meal with dry dog food and a bit of shredded cheese. It could be the silver polish on his bowl is upsetting his stomach. Oh, that was a little snippy; I  think I would rather be snippy right now than brood over Shane getting older. I just have to accept it and be prudent in our spoiling of him.

Because I definitely feel chatty, I am making myself close this post.