Yesterday Cameron and I were at Mother’s, killing weeds and doing some more mowing. And, by the way, the ball fell off of the gearshift on the Toro; I fear I may have run over it. Luck wasn’t with me in finding it so I’ll have to find something to screw on it. But, that’s that. We brought a bag of charcoal with us and lighter fluid and hot dogs and little sausages and we cooked them in the little red Weber grill.

Just the two of us – my teaching him about charcoal fires and draughts and our coming back periodically to see how things were progressing. I had looked for the short piece of stove pipe with holes punched in the bottom with an old fashioned can opener to help the coals progress but didn’t find it until I backed over it with a mower and flattened it. That is another story; actually, I guess I just told it. Come to think of it, maybe that is why the Toro threw its gearshift ball on the ground.

We didn’t bustle the way folks do here with the gas grill. As we waited for the stuff to get all brown and hot, we sat on mis-matched chairs from the deck and sipped soda out of the cooler. My hot dogs tasted really good on the whole grain Aunt Millie buns – so much better than the gas heated ones. And Cameron toasted his buns – just as my mother used to do. I think some things are in the genes. He also prefers stoneware to acrylic plates.

I mixed up a mean bunch of weed killer in the spray tank and we will see how effective it turns out to be; I have a kill everything bottle of stuff in reserve for the fence lines, but figure we need experience with the more forgiving week killer first. One year Quentin and I used the strong stuff and didn’t realize we were dripping as we went from site to site. The yard looked perforated that year.

The dandelions have been sneaky this year – I will go into that later. Now time to go to school . . . for Summer.

Well, now, Summer feels as I do about the nincompoop who started the 30 Minute Delay Collaboration fiasco. She didn’t remember either; we pulled up to school and I said, “Oh, Summer, it’s Wednesday.” I won’t quote Summer; suffice it to say she now feels the passion of the Resistance.

And, then, of course, there was Sydney who had to wait a half hour to go to the FG.

The water heater man is here and so it is out with old and in with the new and let’s hope there’s a hot time in the ole town tonight.

At this moment my pajama pants are nice and soft on my legs – the feel of quality flannel. They happen to have snowflakes on them by that is okay; I’m not looking at them. But in a few minutes I will have to take Summer to school, Sydney to the fairgrounds and then the appointment for the installation of the new water heater is at 8:30. I could do the taking to school and the fairgrounds in pajama pants, but I’m not happy with the idea of the water heater guys.

So the flannel will be reluctantly shed for denim. Considering I spent about seven hours yesterday dealing with mowers, gas, remedial ramping to get the mowers out of the shed and what must be record-setting growing grass (and weeds), I am going to have to trick my legs into jeans.

Is it illegal to shout “FIRE OF THE PANTS” in an uncrowded porch?

Some time ago it became the rage when explaining something, be it policy or personal preference in pie, to pose a question and then answer it with a definite “absolutely”. Well, I’m tired of it.

Will this cost more money? Absolutely. But it will last three times as long before it falls in the river.

Will this set the project back? Absolutely. But if mistakes are not corrected, the project will never succeed.

Will apple pie give me calories? Absolutely. But the down home flavor will remind me of the values of my parents.

Aren’t you tired of it? Absolutely.

My water heater is very sick; I stuck my hand in the part where the pilot light resides and I found rust flakes. I had seen a wet spot at one spot and this morning realized it continued under an area rug and reappeared by the corner drain. So, well, drat, I think the water heater is on its death bed. I am waiting for water heater men to come and look at it and plan to install a new one. They are running later than they said they would be so I figured it I started typing this, they would show up and ring the bell. That strategy is not working and I suppose I will have to sit on a stool in the kitchen and concentrate on sending psychic waves that pull them closer and closer until they are here.

The decision I must make now is which color stool on which to sit.

I ended the last post abruptly because I was worried about my cursor not showing up on the screen as I typed and tried to get a the right spot to fix a word that had gone misspelled. I pushed publish and then tried the cursor one more time on the post I had just written –  the one that was obviously still sitting in front of my face and POOF, the cursor was back.

I am nervous about this. When Quentin was little he would stand in the middle of circular clothing displays and I would feel panic start to grip me. Well, this isn’t that bad but it is unsettling to suddenly realize your cursor is not just one tiny step in front of you acting as a flashlight on the vast blankness ahead. The crinkling sound? I don’t know. I just don’t know. It is not doing it now, but that is about as comforting as having your heart skip beats and then go back to normal. It could do it again anytime!

I mowed my mother’s house yard with the rider again. Last week when I did that, I broke or dislocated a toe. Maybe this time the retribution will be something more vital to me than my little toe. I will probably become obsessed with this and check all the time. Oh, wait, if it breaks I won’t have to be compulsive about checking if it has failed yet. I will know. Of course, in such situations, I usually then become obsessed with checking to see if there has been a reversal of fortune and, somehow, everything is all right.

I will KNOW, of course, that it happened and may happen again so that “all right” is misleading. Already I feel a weakening of the knees and nerves twitching. I am uneasy. I think my pulse rate is up.  What if the missing cursor is only the beginning of a curse. Is there such a thing as laptop voodoo from beyond the grave? Oh, I don’t know; I don’t know; I don’t know. The panic: it’s started, hasn’t it?

Rose, Rose, I need you. Unfortunately, Rose is on vacation at the Ohio Redoubt, partying at Grover’s Grotto and eating Cousin Vinny’s pizza. I need to get a grip, but Rose packed her stuff in it when she went on holiday. Maybe I need someone to slap me? Ack, members of the colony here are pushing and shoving to be first in line to “help” me.

Deep breaths.

Last night there was thunder; yes, it was a stormy night. And it is not a bright morning, as far as the weather is concerned.  Everything is gray and dim and it is raining; more thunderstorms are predicted. I don’t mind storms that much, in fact I like change in barometric pressure and the cool, crisp air they usually bring in summer.

BUT TODAY IS SATURDAY!!!!!! And what  is waiting outside is one, big clinging WET.

And I just realized I can’t see the cursor and I hear a crinkling noise coming from my laptop. What is the phrase? Oh, yes. Woe is me.

Sometimes when I write, I actual write – as in using words to express my feelings and/or to capture the spirit of a moment, be it high or low. Lately, I have been reporting . . . more or less. I don’t know if I am feeling shallow or lazy or am choosing to float on the surface of things because this fall and winter have been emotional. Either way I am writing a rut, just as oxen made one as the trod across the prairie. It is boring, but, on the other hand, boring can be soothing. Of course, that is okay if the weather is fair and the breeze soft and warm – “broad, sunlit uplands” as Churchill said. To be truthful, as I think about this, I believe I am forgetting what boredom really feels like. Boredom is not soothing; so maybe I am thinking of daydreaming as I go along in my rut. Or resting . . . resting in the rut.

This is not a lead up to an announcement that I am climbing out of my reporting rut. What happens, happens.

Last night I was done in; I leaned over from a sitting position to a sprawling body presentation and flipped through TV stations using the remote. Then for the next four hours, I had episodes of glimpsing the screen and thinking, “Gee, what is going on with this plot?” At 11 pm I woke up and spent some time wondering how in ever I would be able to sleep through the night. At 6 am, I awoke. I have read that during sleep a necessary enzyme for thinking is produced in the brain . . . well, maybe I should take an online IQ test right now since once I took one and got a 76. Yes, maybe will all this sleep and freshly-made enzyme I could manage an 87.

Summer seems to have the flu – the stomach and intestinal kind. She has been sitting next to me the past couple of days as we have joined Gordon Ramsay as tries to resurrect failing restaurants. Her breath has floated into my breathing space. Let me sum this paragraph up by noting Summer is the first to get some illness and always passes it around to everyone.  So we are waiting with the swords of nausea hanging over our heads.