I was not looking for anything on Amazon.com at all; I was just there because it was fate. Der Bingle is a pocket knife aficionado and has had a couple of experiences where he forgot and had to forfeit one at the airport.

If he had this one, he would simply not take the flight. No. Maybe if he could mail it to himself, he’d go, but that’s assuming he had time to do so. I am in awe of this knife – not so much that I am going to commit this amount of money to it. But if he does, I will totally understand.

I’m being a little loose with someone’s privacy here, but I think it’s necessary for people to have some exposure to the forever grief of losing a child.

It’s not just a day. On February 2, I published the post right below, which for today will remain there. Jody’s father sent me this message a couple of days later:

Thank you for Remembering Miss Body’s birthday. I couldn’t bring myself to post a comment. She died on Easter 3 years ago and I still can’t bite the head off a damn chocolate bunny without bawling.

Then, later, he wrote that she was his sunshine. I understand his not being able to post a comment . . . because he loved her so much. And I can also feel him thinking that he just had to . . . because he just loves her so much.

Because we have had so much snow, we have had to actually take the time to deal with it. That can keep your mind and    body occupied. And because we have had so much snow so often, everything has remained white – really white. No dirty snow to speak of at all. I had not thought of it before, but all that whiteness has made things very bright, even though we have had very little sun.

Yesterday when I was shoveling to keep ahead of what I am now calling “the bliz-zard”, I had to put my glasses in my pocket. It wasn’t so much that they were steaming up, but that the transition lenses were getting so dark, it was difficult to see.

I remember one January and February a few years ago – probably documented somewhere on this blog – when we had continuous clouds, but little, if no, snow.  Then, one morning the sun did come out and I was astonished at how much the change in angle had occurred during the cloud out. I actually remember staring at objects lit by sunlight and really feeling good about it. It had been a gradual thing – this forgetting about the sun. There was daylight and there was night; I didn’t think about the sun really. Of course, Indiana in the winter is dreary; sometimes, it’s just better that you don’t see debris of winter in all it’s shades of brown and gray.

When we lived in Sacramento, all those decades ago, I used to think I had to go out on every sunny day and enjoy it, because, you know, I was familiar with Indiana weather and clouds rolling in. I about killed myself savoring all that blasted sun. Day  in and day out, Well, as Gilda would say, “It’s always something . . .”

When I came awake in the dark this morning, I was aware of the sound of a strong snorer as heard from another room. That’s what it sounded like, but it was not; it was Shane curled up on a soft comforter on the floor beside me. It was either Shane or it was the monster finally coming out from under the bed. I suppose there could be other scenarios, but by this time I had peeked over the side and, yes, it was Shane.

Dog snoring is not quite like people snoring; I had the sensation I was lying next to a low-pitched engine that rhythmically slipped into a more powerful gear. It actually was soothing, once I got the monster idea out of my head. Unfortunately, my throat was really dry and sore and I wanted a drink of water . . . and, okay, maybe I wanted to go into the bathroom. Shane lay right where my feet would land if I swiveled to get up. So I thought about it.

When I faced the fact  I was not going to be relaxed at all, I sat up, swiveled around, stuck my legs straight out . . . and tried to angle myself up with my feet contacting the floor beyond him.  I don’t know why I even tried; he immediately opened his eyes, took in the situation and, I’m certain, thought: “What does she not understand about doggie protective alertness?”

He did not move, however, until I decided that it would be a good idea for him to take a bathroom break while I was up already.  I wanted none of this settling back down and then feeling the cold nose nagging on my cheek. He seemed put out . . . and, come to think of it, that’s exactly what the circumstance was.  It was cold out there, so in my soft heart, I left the door pushed shut, but not latched. His bathroom break was shorter than mine and when he returned, pushing the door open to enter, HE DID NOT TURN AROUND THEN AND PUSH THE DOOR CLOSED!

What does he not understand about basic protection? That’s probably not the question he expects me to ask myself. I’m betting he is suggesting that I leave a glass of water where I sleep and that I don’t drink after a certain time at night so I don’t have to get up before he wants to. I strongly suspect this because when I turned around after having shut the door, I saw him lying nearby, watching my every move. I thought I heard a voice in my head: Gosh, she’s a slow learner.

Well, okay, Shane, I’m sorry I’m not the equivalent of an Australian Shepherd, one of the supposedly really smart dogs. I’m a mutt. I admit it. Heck. I scored a 76* on an online IQ test, so cut me a little slack, okay?

*This is one of Summer’s nicknames for me: Miss 76. I should have never mentioned it to her; that WAS stupid of me.

on an online IQ test . . . so cut me some slack, okay?

I went out this morning and shoveled some snow judiciously – that is to say, I tackled the trouble spots. I thought it would be a little easier than it was. Having noted the snow was powdery, I backed out the car and drove out the drive, around the plowed big block and back into the garage, thereby marking the exact curving of the driveway. Not going to shovel where I didn’t need to and figured if I hadn’t gotten stuck, it wasn’t going to fight me.

That sort of happened, but the powdery stuff was deep in the canyon that is my entrance to Riley Street proper and the plows had left a firm new ridge at the end. It had also  drifted some distance in the first subtle curve.  Anyway, when I realized I was tired, I went in and plopped in front of a TV.  Rachael Ray was on and she was making some sort of eggplant casserole with homemade sauce – the kind of sauce where she used an odd-looking masher and peeled whole tomatoes.

It’s always nice to see cheerful kitchens and recipes being made by people other than myself. It occurred to me that what these cooks need is a friend who likes to sip soda and tell funny stories to perch there beside them at the counter. Me. I could comment on the great smells, comment on the wholesome homeyness of the kitchen and grin and joke. Maybe hand her a spoon or whisk.

I could be sort of an AmeliaJake on the Shelf,  just appreciating the hell  out of the effort that was being made and the class being exhibited.  This would be a great job. Especially if she had cute little snackie things already prepared. People could book me ahead of time and I’d show up . . . and just be ME.

Rose thinks there might be a glitch in this idea, but, my goodness, what could it be? Oh, Rose is saying, “Who” could it be, not what. (Chuckle) Rose gets these silly ideas.

I looked at the weather site and it reported snow is accumulating rapidly; it actually stuck it right there in red.  I looked at Fort Wayne news site and one of the main threads is that people are fed up with Mother Nature. I don’t know about the wisdom of that. I understand that the snow has to be dealt with, but it’s winter.

I’m going to go look out the window now; maybe I’ll feel a gut-level change. But, I think I’ll still be mostly fed up with that Joe Biden fellow. God, I can’t stand that man.

For a little while, with red cheeks and a red coat, I stood out by the woodpile and thought, “What is this hump in front?” Well, ACK and double ACK, it was a small pile of logs that had not been racked, but forgotten and then snowed over.

So, for a little while, I used hands encumbered by monster gloves and whacked at one piece of buried wood with another already uncovered piece, until I had enough pieces loose and free to carry in. It was not a bad task; the temperature was in the twenties and I was sheltered from what wind there was. I didn’t pile myself with logs; I took one at a time . . . because they are new wood and also have the weight of ice on them.

Walking back and forth. I felt akin to generations before me. And now I sit with my laptop and feel akin to generations after . . . maybe I have the best of both worlds.

We have a Winter Storm Warning in effect through Thursday. So, I guess I’ll head out to Wal-Mart for some Alka-Seltzer Orange Zest Plus for my sinus. Actually, it says it’s for colds, but I find it works better than the designated sinus Alka-Seltzer. Truly boring to read this, I know, but after enough snow and cold and wind, your mind whites out.

That being the case, I should just specify an empty area and post it for today, but I’m revved up because I still have to scroll by Joe Biden’s clown face to get to “Site Administration”, so I wouldn’t be satisfied with not typing. I need to punch these keys just as if they are his face.

PUNCH
PUNCH
PUNCH
PUNCH
PUNCH

I can imagine someone in my family buying a Jack in the Box and then altering Jack to be a Joe face. Auuuugggghhhhhh. I’d probably grab that popping up head and slam the whole contraption against the wall – over and over again. It would be therapeutic.

This thing about writing posts in a blog – at first it seems so what? so paper and pencil, only easier. So telling about something, but, gee, here you are all alone in a room by yourself – and you have no stamp. So who are you telling and why?

Of course, there are those times when it is such a nice way to share, with pictures that can expand and fill the whole screen or be sent miles away. And they just happened a few seconds ago.

But, I guess, some people use it to sort of share the things they really feel awkward about sharing. Maybe a writer is creating a scene in a movie that captures some emotion that will reach deep inside another. Because isn’t that what words are – coded pictures of life and how real it feels in your gut. How it makes your eyes brim, your throat constrict.

You write it up and there it is and you know pretty soon you are sending it across airwaves to maybe someone else, but you let that stay a little foggy in your mind. I mean, who are you to cry on someone’s shoulder. And then, finally, you realize one or two are there . . . and you stop being you – not all at once, not completely; but you protect them, misdirect them and sometimes entertain them. You do this because you cannot bring yourself to write you are frightened and sad and at a loss.

But you do write it, finally, because you are the type of person who just can’t be satisfied with a page of paper in a journal. You don’t want sympathy, really, you don’t. But for some reason in your tears and fears, you don’t want to be alone.

It could be that is where stories come from; they are just tales of a character wearing a mask on your face. Perhaps there are those of us who are, in our essence, a Budweiser commercial. See, I’m not at the end of my rope – not when there’s a puppy and big old horse tugging a smile at the corners of eyes and mouth.