But I have just been doing that since noon; where have I been before that? Beats me, I thought I had posted at least twice. Do you suppose I dreamed it? Well, since I see nothing posted, I must assume there was a glitch and you know what? I’ll bet they were the best two posts I have ever written – maybe literary award quality. Oh, well, the perfidious aspects of computer publishing.

Oh, then, maybe I just wasn’t paying attention to the passage of time. Ah, let’s go with the explanation in the first paragraph.

All the graves have been flowered. I stood there alone in front of each one. A lot of emotions bounced around in my head. There were some tears.

BACK TO THE TRACK.
Only 34 more laps to go. I think I liked it better when the cars were slower. And do you believe this, but they went to commercial for a promo about “Wipe Out” – a show about people trying stunts that result in body whacking.

Another commercial!! Caution flag out and 30 laps to go.
29 to go.
20 laps to go.
We will pause now while I watch closely and Two Moo prepares the bottle of milk for the winner.
OOPS, Marco A. will not win today.

ASHLEY JUDD’S HUSBAND WON!!

And I’m off to the kitchen

Ah, I see Two Moo decided to post her own little entry during the trip. Two Moo did not make it clear that the carpal tunnel brace did NOT go into “used” toilet water. She looked like the cow who ate the cat who ate the canary last evening and I think maybe she was ambiguous on purpose.

It was a nice trip; I had lunch with my cousins. We laughed at old memories . . . and at the story of the time AmeliaJake knocked the brace into the toilet (like an hour before) . . . and we pooled all our support and good wishes behind Patrick, the son of the cousin who wasn’t there because he and his wife have been with Patrick in Minnesota.

Lana came over – the cousin who is now 63 and not a year younger than I am until August, late August.

That evening Susie and her husband and Glenda and I went out to dinner at a place called Duck’s; they served a buffet of delicious chicken and pork tenderloin and mashed potatoes like Mother made, great gravy and really good green beans + plus a beginning salad and ending desserts . . . such as CHEESECAKE.

It’s a small place in West Lebanon, Indiana. I followed Susie and Marshall there and then followed Glenda to her house. This “following” business in the land around the Wabash isn’t hard, as long as you remember you’re supposed to be following and not daydream yourself onto another road, but it does give you a disoriented feeling. Old roads from old times, sometimes running through thick woods that line the ridge above the river. And then, you will break into an expansive view of really flat low fields that were once river bottom and probably still are in years of floods. There is a definite wilderness feel to this part of the state and literally “follwing” is so much better than trying to follow directions.

See:

Because I order Yankee Candles online, I get a lot of emails notifying me of sales. I take advantage of the semi-annual ones – six for $69. I doubt these four fragrances – or should I call them smells? – will go on sale.

No, they are too much of a novelty for women to buy for sons, husbands and fathers. I am a little uncertain about the Man Town scent, but actually, Riding Mower and 2×4 don’t sound bad. First Down is supposed to include the smell of leather, but a lot of other things could be included: sweat, spilled sour beer, over-used recliners . . .

Okay, AmeliaJake and I got to Susie’s and AmeliaJake went to the bathroom and knocked Susie’s carpal tunnel brace into the toilet.

The pot fell over in the car.

Then things got better.

More later.

From Two Moo, your friend.

That’s what we’ve always called them – pots. I guess florists and greenhouses refer to Memorial Day flowers by some other name, although it escapes me at this time. Mother’s pot, Daddy’s pot, Grandpa Shimp’s pot and Grandma Shimp’s and Auntie’s.

I think calling them pots is related to getting the actual container, sticking your fingers in the dirt and putting in geraniums and spikes and some sort off ivy or fern go together. Pots and black soil . . . and doing it because your heart asks you too. I don’t think of the dead people lying beneath the stones; I see in my mind those people doing the potting thing in years past and me following along, helping (or getting in the way). I even remember the sensory aspects of the times we did it – the nearness of Grandma’s starched and ironed house dress, the coarseness of the dirt on the work table’s surface, the smell of geraniums, the heat of the sun as we toted pots from car to grave, the silence as we stepped back and looked at the flowers by the gravestones.

Now if this were tomorrow at this time, I should be in the drivers seat heading out to Fountain County – meeting my cousins in Attica. Every time I think of Attica, I see Gregory Peck in my mind. Atticus Finch, don’tcha know. I don’t know what I saw before I read To Kill a Mockingbird – all I remember is my dad asking if I wanted to go through Attica or not on the way to Kingman. And then, of course, he always asked about Yeddo. It was an ongoing joke which began before I can remember. I suppose the name was funny when I was little. He’s dead now; in fact, it’s his grave to which I am going on Thursday. However, his voice and that question pop into my mind whenever I see the Yeddo sign.

Maybe when I die, my last word will be Yeddo, but I doubt it. I don’t think I have the same fondness for Yeddo as Kane had for Rosebud.

I’d like to take a lot of pictures of my way down, but I will be in the car alone. I need someone along to document the route across Indiana that I take on Memorial Day Week-end . . . because it is pastoral and because I usually get lost, despite GPS. I should have an album of AmeliaJake Lost Places. Actually, I am usually not truly lost; I am mostly a little lost. That is probably worse because I think, “Oh, surely I can figure this out.” That isn’t so bad most of the time, but when I get down in the area where east and west roads lead to the floodplain of the Wabash River, I can do a lot of backtracking.

Better save my strength for tomorrow.

Two Moo tries out iPad . . .

Two Moo has been looking at the blog and confided to Der Bingle that she thinks I have been losing my “cowness” and am in need of a few rehabilitating lessons. She has come to visit for the week. I hugged her and thanked her for coming to save me and she said, “Don’t get used to it.” I guess she will be heading back to the Ohio Redoubt next week-end.

I think I will take her on my road trip down to Kingman Fraternal Cemetery; we can cruise along rural Indiana roads and raise our moos in song. She is making me clean out and vacuum the car and even take it in to have the brakes checked. They are tweeting and we are not talking twitter.  We’ll need the ice cooler and drinks and GPS in case we get led afield in the search for pastures.

But, of course, more about that later.

I had a little “aha” moment. Mrs. Feller at the nursing home really likes hot fudge sundaes from Dairy Queen. Fortunately, there is one in Albion where North Ridge Village is located; unfortunately, during the trip from store to car to NRV, there is a lot of melting. I tried all sorts of insulation and then, BAM!, it came to me: IT’S THE BLASTED HOT FUDGE ITSELF.

But that is her favorite and, fortunately, there was another “BAM” and I thought of getting the hot fudge separate. I am trying it out today. Then I thought, “Why, I can take my own sprinkles and cherries and whatever.” I think I should go slowly: one-step-at-a-time, AmeliaJake. I know how I can get out of hand.

I love my little experiments . . . and the failures make such good stories. So, today is Friday Sundae. Oh, my gosh, fried ice cream . . . fryday sundae.

Must get self under control.

Yesterday I moved a small woodpile; I could show you a picture of the empty place where the old rotting (aging) wood was, but that would involve moving my sore muscles. I will be using the old wood in the firepit, so I didn’t move it far; mainly, I cleared it out of the little nook formed by the side of the shed and two lengths of fencing that meet at a right angle.

There were leaves that ranged up to a decade in age tucked in the layers of the pile and under the metal supports – that were there to keep it off the ground so it wouldn’t rot. I think pieces of those leaves crept into every fold, wrinkle and pore on my body – and into every pocket. I thought I could feel things moving around on me. I showered. Oh, it felt so good. Then I thought I felt something move on my head . . .

I calmed myself and got my imagination in line and now I am thinking about what to do today. Resting is an option – resting and aspirin-taking.