I have an announcement that I hope does not jinx me: I have unclogged the basement shower drain.
It has been a five day effort, but now the water is flowing nicely. It is not exciting to other people; it is not an announcement such as:
Grandma got a convertible.
Grandma got a Hummer.
Grandma won the lottery.
Not even a
Grandma sent me Amazon money response.

It is exciting to me. I could almost go down to Logan’s, throw peanut shells on the floor, quaff flavored iced tea, eat a Whiskey River Burger and celebrate Drain Clearing Day.

But, please, no jinx.

So, I’m back. I’m back because I can’t chase people around talking about Eric Sevareid and reminiscing about the cadence of his commentaries and I didn’t just want to stop with a lonely mini-thought about him. I looked on YouTube and found his farewell essay.

I grew up listening to Eric Sevareid. He’s been gone for 36 years (as a commentator on CBS News) and I miss him in that role. He died in 1992 and that’s 21 years ago. In those 21 years, I wouldn’t say many of his caliber have come of age.

I don’t know if there will be a “Well, part 3” today, but I kind of feel in a mood.

Yes, well, I really have had a bland brain the past couple of days and didn’t have much to say so I didn’t say it. Today is not much different, but I guess I’m not letting that stop me.

I mowed yesterday for the first time with the electric mower – Hey, I’m getting better with managing the cord on the ground and the blades on the mower. Then it rained, as I thought it would, and I felt good that the humpy little yard was leveled off. You understand we’re not talking golf course level here, right? Just basic AmeliaJake level.

But, of course, the thought came: “You know you’ll have to do this again . . . and again . . . and again.”  You know, you’ve got to give it to snow – it will melt eventually. Grass does not shrink and have you ever heard the expression “a snake in the snow” ?

Yesterday there was winter on the windshield but I began to really notice that spring is on the ground. Nice, green, colorful and therefore not depressingly drab, grass. It also is showing signs of growing. I’m not going to complain about being in my 60’s and quite capable of mowing grass; let’s just say I would rave a little bit more about being in my 60’s and walking down to the beach. I don’t know if it is human nature or not, but it is apparently AmeliaJake nature.

I don’t remember if I mentioned it or not, but I, as the proprietress of the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, have decided I have to be rather firm with some of my regulars who like foldovers on the house, but don’t consider oiling the hinges on the screen door, sweeping the peanut shells off the floor, keeping the glasses nice and sparkly, or toting the remains of the day out to the trash can. I have started a private blog on which I post chores that need to be done. I even use pictures, although I haven’t yet added circles and arrows courtesy of photoshop yet. I will probably be a little more creative than circles and arrows when I get to that stage because I am the one who took a marker and wrote on the several pairs of scissors I had to buy to replace “missing” ones. Thing like: Take and Die, G’ma will kill you, a picture of a skull and crossbones, the word poison and so forth. So far, I am not seeing much success. Time to be motivational . . . I find myself chuckling. Maybe a little tweaking with the wi-fi? Missing DVD’s? As the days grow warmer I might announce one must earn air conditioning; I could make a sign over the door: Work will keep you Cool.

I have given them author privileges on the blog so they can let off steam or whatever; I think that is fair.

That about says it all. For now.

Shane is standing by the door; there is no way he is going outside again – since he was just out – because the big wind has brought rain that is pouring down. I do not want to smell wet dog; I do not want to have a wet dog shake on me. He feels the spirit of adventure, I think, seeing himself standing noble-like, face into the wind. I’m sorry Shane, but I’m just not up to letting you be your Walter Mitty self today. So go climb in the big leather chair, curl up and dream Lassie dreams.

I was awakened this morning by Alison telling me Tiffi has a sore on her tail; Summer had already let the idea of a sore on a tail grow into a fear of a tumor on the tail. So Alison and Robert took Tiffi to the vet he thinks it’s an infected sore on the tail. She got an antibiotic injection that keeps working for two weeks. Unfortunately, the vet mentioned if it hadn’t healed by then, he would do a biopsy. He just mentioned it – as a follow up thing.

I started thinking about a cat tail in a cast – the image just popped into my mind – but I am not going to mention it because I think Summer will not think it a humorous image. And that is not a mood we want her to be in.

Robert William was supposed to be born around May 1st, but I went to the hospital around 11 pm on April 16th, 44 years ago. ACK. He was born at 2:20 am. So it is tomorrow that I will post two pictures of someone less than a week old . . . and of two people a whole lot younger than they are now.

We decided today we could see the tops of some of the trees in the woods outside the nursing home window turning red. Beginning buds. Finally. And, please, nobody nip them in their buddingness. This winter has seemed to go on and on and on. Clara said as March finally drew to a close that it had felt as if it were always going to be March. I agreed.

There is not rhyme nor reason to it, and no one is really looking forward to hot sidewalks and humidity, but these months have seemed extraordinarily drab.  The woods have stood as sticks stuck in the ground, without even one evergreen among them. But now we have buds. I feel like we should go out with sparkling grape juice, raise our glasses and toast: This bud’s for you.

I’ll leave it at that – okay, just break my typing fingers now . . . before I promise (falsely) to turn over a new leaf.