It was apparently picture day.
We went to Fort Wayne and while there had lunch at Logan’s. Here is a picture of their clock – set to, of course, DST – what we used to call “fast time.”
Then I got a little artsy – and here is a shot of the light in the ladies room.
Sometimes, my mind is like a kaleidoscope and goes quickly from one condensed thought to another and I just let it happen. No one subject or memory makes me slow the pace and meander around, exploring that bit of the past. I don’t know if it is that I don’t want to get deep into emotions or if the series of flickering pictures is a practice session for the “life passing before your eyes” experience that people talk about when they sense death coming. Odd thing to write, I suppose, but odd often has interesting aspects, and should be appreciated . . . in moderation, I suppose.
What am I getting at? I know, I’m asking that also. I don’t know why I am writing basically nothing. I realize, though, that when I am thinking of nothing in particular, I notice the coolness of the glass in my hand, the hue of the sky, the warm weight of soft wool on my knees, the paintings on the wall that are always there, but I never seem to see, the pattern in the comforter thrown over the back of a wicker chair. It’s kind of pleasant.
Well, I’ve noticed that just these past six years have made me more satisfied with just having a regular day.
THE PERFECT WEEKEND?? In Indiana??? You jest.
According to what I just read at the weather website, this little part of Indiana is supposed to have two weekend days of sunshine and temperatures that will be in the high 70’s on Saturday and the low 80’s on Sunday. As I understand it, that is two days of sunshine all day long. This is unusual for Indiana; more often than not, a sunny blue-skied morning will turn cloudy by 11 am, leaving everyone with deflated spirits.
You may know this is likely to happen – and living in Indiana will surely teach you this – but you always are sucked in by the physical impact of the sun and and a clear morning and then as the morning goes on, let down. You can feel the chemicals in your brain: NO CHEER FOR YOU. . . BUMMER, BABY . . . HAHAHAHAHA.
If the prediction holds, it will be an unusual Indiana weekend . . . It is very hard to trust an Indiana sky and here Chicken Little comes running with the cry of My Spirits are Falling; My Spirits are Falling – and he is not being an extremist kooky chick.
But let’s say you let yourself believe it will be good weather, then the problem becomes: I can’t waste this weather; I must do something fun. But what?? The pressure is tremendous. When I was in Sacramento in the early 70’s, we had day after summer day of sun and I practically killed myself by my Indiana-induced attitude of “Wow, the sun is out! Let’s do something.”
I hope you aren’t toying with me this weekend, Indiana.
I am on my next antibiotic for my “complicated UTI” and have 10 days of three daily pills that are supposed to be taken an hour before or 2-3 hours after eating. Gee . . . It’s SO complicated. That was not sarcastic; it was sort of a sighing, frustrated remark. I suppose this sounds gross, but I almost wish they would tell me to come in and lie down and have a little tranqy medicine and be flushed out and air-dried. Hey, I tried to tell you it was gross. Eh, it ain’t that bad.
Anyway, that is how my day is starting. I was awakened by some cramping in my bladder. When I was first diagnosed with this UTI, it was because I had taken a home test to be a baseline for my daughter-in-law. I was surprised to see the telltale purple. The doctor asked me what symptoms I had been having and I said I didn’t think any, really. Later, I would come to realize I had been too eager to accept “growing older pains and aches” stoically. Now, that the former uncomfortable sensations are officially infection symptoms, they seem worse. It is human nature.
Well, I had intended to comment on my day starting and then go on to other things, but just turned around and did more urinary talk. Obviously, I am a little too tuned in to it. So I am trying again:
I don’t know what I am going to do today. That probably means there was no need for the elaborate work-up to this paragraph. My writing is like my talking: I seldom let lack of content stop me. Now my great Aunt Sara was different; Mother always said Aunt Sara kept quiet until she had something worth saying. She was smart, Aunt Sara. Quirky, though, and the subject of many stories – such as the one in which she rode to town in an old turn of the century Buick with her head out the window because her hat would not fit inside.
Her first husband was Sherman, a smart gentleman who travelled all over the United States, selling Encyclopedia Britannica to schools. He was older than Sara had been in some war and developed a bad heart and the family in Indiana never really knew much about his death, but Aunt Sara went to work for the Veteran’s Administration in Washington D.C.. We have a picture of her with her office staff, but that’s all we know.
We also don’t know where L.D. came from; he was her second husband and we don’t think his name was L.D., put that’s what Aunt Sara called him so we went along with it. Oh course, I was less than one when I meant her; she arrived in a delivery truck, sitting on an upturned crate while L.D. drove and my father later said it was packed like a cube. Mother said that was when Grandma might have had a heart spell. Not really, but it was shocking. As L.D. reportedly told my father, “She thought I had money and I thought she had money.” Obviously, although quite intelligent, Aunt Sara could have used a little more intelligence information.
Aunt Sara was maybe four years older than Grandma – and I know somewhere I’ve written this before but I’m doing it again – and was Grandma’s father’s youngest sister. My great-grandparents basically had two families: three boys and then a long interval and three girls. And, as long as I’m being informational, Aunt Sara originally had an “h” at the end of her name, but somewhere along the line, she dropped it – maybe it got heart trouble. We don’t know.
She dyed her hair red but she was a good worker, according to Mother. She and L.D. came to visit up until I was about five and then I don’t know what happened, although she apparently started travelling around the world . . . alone. She sent me a copy of A Christmas Carol she had purchased in London.
Then, by the end of her life, she had settled in New Orleans and finally, the family went and got her and she came back and then died. Oddly enough, I just realized I have no idea where she is buried. Now there’s a project for a little research.
I don’t know if these past spontaneous paragraphs about Aunt Sara were spit out by my mind in spasm or not, but I did read that in older people UTI’s can cause mental confusion. Just as long as I don’t put my glasses in the microwave . . .
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.