Redux: Kendallville to Houston

Two of last colorful views – for Pottermom and Quentin, of course:
Red leaves:
red leaves

These leaves are actually purple.
actually purple
Well, maybe you can see the purple better here, but it’s not much better.
see purple better

And then there are these pictures:

Part of my pile at the edge of the street and driveway
part of driveway pile
Part of the pile by the curving sidewalk next to the driveway
part of sidewalk pile
This makes them look smaller and you can’t see the ones just in the street beyond the curb, but, really, it’s a lot.
can't see those in street by curb

Yes it was a lot of raking, but I felt connected to my mother and father and grandparents who worked very hard and had the same idea expressed by Lauren Bacall in a blog interview:

She leans forward and pokes a finger in my chest. “Remember what Bogie and my mother both used to say: ‘Character is the most important thing. All that matters is character!’”

Windy in Kendallville

A couple of days ago I posted two pictures of the warm and glowing color on one of my trees. The day I did so, the leaves that were on the ground were dry and light and would have been easy to rake. I did not do so and that night it rained; it rained yesterday as well and the ground looks mucky now.

We had some wind yesterday evening and this morning, more of the trees are again the winter sticks that insist on remaining that way until usually late April or early May. It can get depressing; and, in fact, it’s depressing right now because the leaves that fell off those sticks are now on top of the wet ones that were there before.

It is in the 30’s. Gee, a real vacation resort here. However, when I checked the forecast I found out that the wind I see moving my bushes is expected to last all day and right now the sky is blue. It is blowing out of the WSW. Trying to rake to the east would be counter-productive and raking to the west would only help put more leaves in neighboring yards. So I am waiting to see what happens. It is supposed to be a strong wind. And, by gosh, I think I already feel uplifted – amazing, no?

Having achieved this state, I am delaying walking into the kitchen where I know people have left stuff that needs to be cleaned up and into the laundry room where clothes are waiting. Perhaps if I opened the windows, the mess would all just blow away in that WSW wind. Of course, having identifiably clothes and dishes and so forth splatting against neighboring houses could incur retribution – and with Halloween right around the corner, it could be chalked up to hooligan activity. There are times it is best to think things through.

Today is the Grand Opening of the newly-remodeled Kroger store in town; there are streamers on the parking lots lights and pennants at the very top of each pole. Of course, they are dancing in the wind. However, they have mounted this tiny little Grand Opening sign; odd, but then it’s their business . . . literally. I am guessing that they will be trying to attract shoppers with bargain prices and I’m betting that if they are encouraging lots of people to come, they won’t be crowding the aisles with samples. I think companies will want Sample Day (of the Holiday Season Kind) to not be overshadowed bargain-hunters overruning the tables they set up in the aisles.

It makes sense: sample day is to entice people to spend a little extra for that that special touch for a meal or to introduce a new snack or holiday-themed item of the eggnog category. I may be wrong, but since I am on a diet, I don’t have much riding on my analysis. Now, if Quentin were here, we would make a fun time of Sample Day and I certainly would not want to miss it. Comparing impressions of what tastes good and plotting strategic multiple passes of the best booths.

Now, we are not the type of people who take advantage of such things, but we like to pretend that we are espionage experts, snarfing up important information hidden in crab meat concoctions. And, more often than not, we would buy what was being offered for out taste buds to sample. It is such a minor thing, I suppose, but I dearly miss those times of light-hearted sly moves and laughter.

And I miss going to the store with my parents, who would never, ever consider entering a business in anything other than very presentable dress, who would be very polite to all the workers and, especially Daddy – strike up a conversation with anyone from a sample lady to a fellow mopping up a spill. I wish I were more like them, and I wonder why I wish that instead of actually trying to be that way. Am I so got up in my selfish concerns that I can’t put a bit of effort into treating the daily things of life with some respect?

This is a time of an overwhelming sense of loss for me and I’d like to let that wind I mentioned carry off some feelings and emotions and just get in step with the ending of A Christmas Carol and have some good will and keep the holidays well.

Instead of packing things away, I want to be digging into boxes and pulling out decorations for fall and Thanksgiving and Christmas traditional items and the warmth of memories that reach across the years and build with each season. I’d like to imagine someone pulling out something decades from now and saying, “My grandmother always loved this little Santa – she said it was on her tree when her grandmother was alive.” Or to put out a tree stand cover and point out the fact it was made over weeks of time at the LaGrange House. Sequins, embroidery, gold braid making reindeer and sleighs and Santa’s – all coming together on the big oak table that had been her grandfather’s.

Well, I’m supposed to have some creativity so maybe I should actually show a little of it. I should start by making a huge batch of pixie dust to throw on the Scrooges I encounter – and I guess I could sprinkle some on myself as well.

I think if I could be granted one wish, it would be to have those around me open to being in good spirits – no humbugers.

Preserved Memories or, “Hey, no one’s dead.”

Pottermom referenced this site about keeping your loved ones alive digitally. You’ll just have to read it yourself to see why I am offended and immediately thought of asking the author: Are you dastardly stupid and incredibly out of your mind?”

It is horrible; how dare anyone talk of keeping people digitally alive so, what, you can not feel loss? Like you don’t know someone is gone, is never coming back? If you try to believe they are still here, then what was going on when they really were here? They would not know they are digitally “alive” because they are dead. We let people “die” who are brain dead and now this fellow is doing basically the opposite.

It is disgusting and totally without dignity. My parents are no longer alive; there is no activity in their minds or bodies. Yes, they are in my heart and mind and I think they knew they would be, but they cannot know it now.

Daddy always told me to use my own good judgement and not let anyone talk me into doing anything I knew I shouldn’t do. Well, I will say this, his advice lives on, and I’m taking it.

Car repairs today

I’m going to be at Shepherd’s in Kendallville at 10 in the morning – because my LaCrosse has this little “sensor problem” that can cause the engine to lose power. It happened once on the way back from Fort Wayne and I nursed the car to the dealership, thinking all the time that maybe my beloved 3800 engine was going to do me wrong, like a country-western song.

As I said, it turned out to be an electron problem and the gentleman at the service desk just shook his head and said it has happened to others and the part just “has a fit” and . . . it acts up in fits and starts. It wasn’t doing it at the time. So I drove it home with the advice that if it happened again, to pull over, stop the engine and restart it. It has not happened again. Yes, that is probably a jinx, but I only have to make it to 10 and about a mile away.

Obviously, I did not go to Fairborn, Ohio this past week-end; pulling over on an interstate for a restart didn’t seem like something I wanted to do, not to mention a possible major slump in power when I am merging and/or in the middle lane of three fast interstate lanes heading down I-75 with semis beside me, in front of me, and – how good are your air brakes? – behind me.

I will be certain to have a good book on my Kindle to read while the car had its procedure; the waiting area also has a big screen TV. I am a little nervous that a big Joe Biden head might pop up and announce, “I’m not running, but I want to say this: “Some ridiculous nonsense” or maybe once again informing a reporter that “We all know my IQ is higher
than yours.”

Want to see a replay of the latter? I couldn’t resist; here it is and pay attention to his list of achievements in law school. I think they were, uh, not correct. This Chicago Tribune article sums up the truth.

Or, check out this article Oh, and it links to the video above as well.

Leaving the leaves

A carpet of gold and orange and red covers my yard and there are more leaves on the trees. They will come down as well and then I will have to stop imagining this Walt Disney magic of color on the ground and acknowledge that God’s leaves, like Disney’s celluloid will decay.

So, were I one of these young starlets you see on the tabloids at the check-out counter, I could probably con some rakish fellows to move them off the grass. However, I am not, and it will be just AmeliaJake and her rake out there.

I’m planning on making a bunch of small piles and then towing a tarp and collecting those piles and, finally, dumping them at the curb. It would be worth it if I could then set those leaves on fire, the way we used to do a long time ago, but, alas, times have changed.

I often told myself that these chores were character-building, a time for reflection and exercise. That understanding of the situation is becoming someone fuzzy to me this year. I need some poetic help: Like dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly.

Joe Biden says he will not run

I heard the news yesterday. First, when I was in a store, I saw on a big screen TV, a special announcement crawler at the bottom: “Biden to speak in Rose Garden in nine minutes . . ” I then stopped in at a bank where they have lots of security cameras, but no big screen TV, and asked the teller if she had heard one way or the other. She had not, but when I rolled my eyes and said in an exasperated whisper, “That BOZO.” she burst out laughing and thanked me for brightening her day.

So, he says he is not running. Hmmm, I would not be surprised if he had not made some deal with the Devil to have everyone on Election Day 2016 feel compelled to don tinfoil hats, through which they would receive instructions to write his name in. Yes, I feel that strongly about the man.

White trash – a politically incorrect term

See, I added a little protection there in the post title since I didn’t want to spend time explaining to any commenter that when you are in your late 60’s, White Trash was just a part of the vocabulary when you were growing up.

I realized tonight that when I went out and climbed up on a ladder to stomp trash in two containers that I am a self-made white trash gal. I come from respectable parents, grandparents and so forth, and here I am stomping trash before I walk back into a house (cafe) that is an almost solid mass of memorabilia.(Clutter)

The inside of my car is like a messy house trailer. Trash container in the car? Hey, just toss it over my shoulder into the back seat. I think I need a portable fridge with a car charger to ride in the passenger seat with me.

The trick is I can “pass” because I clean up fairly well. And my English diction is impeccable – give or take a smidgen of slang. I can recite poetry, studied Latin, do not appreciate those tawdry shows on television and yet, with very little effort, I can lean back in a chair, prop a booted foot on a table or wall and when really, really pressed, I have used a vinyl table cloth inside.

Yeah, Old AJ is WT. Sorry, ancestors, all you DAR and Daughters of the Union ladies, all you sturdy, upstanding people who went taught Sunday School and kept me from hearing, let alone saying certain words until I got to Bloomington, Indiana. Heck, I’m making myself feel guilty: I may have to redeem myself, but I probably didn’t leave enough time.

One good thing: I don’t crush beer cans with my bare hands – I specialize in those new really thin plastic water bottles, and I don’t bash them on my forehead.