I know this is an off-the-wall topic for me to blog about, but my grandson turned the TV on to a multi-part documentary on rescue teams in the Alps. It is titled The Horn, referring to the Matterhorn, and I was impressed. The scope of detailed preparation and maintenance of equipment to facilitate rescues caught my attention, and the professionalism and maturity of the rescue team members was humbling.

I could go into a lot of details talking about the rescues, but I wouldn’t do it justice. If you get a chance, watch at least one of the episodes and learn about helicopters in the fickle (and cold) weather of the Alps and the paramedics, mountain guide rescue specialists who go down, down, down into crevasses that have opened up and grabbed hikers and skiers in the snap of the fingers.

And, in addition to the topic, the scenery is tremendous.

Do you remember me whining and whining so much about the chilly spring temperatures that I practically earned My Little Old Lady Demerit Scouting Badge? Well, today, right now in the morning, it is 87 degrees and it feels likes like 95.

I am thinking: Be careful what you wish for. I was telling my grandson the other day that I needed to be sure and get outside and acclimate myself to the warmer weather; well, this is not what I had in mind. I think maybe I will go out, sit in the shade and read for a bit, probably a little bit and that is a maybe.

However, before my chilly whining turns into hot b–ching, I am going  to force myself to keep in mind what it was like for my ancestors, of whom I have been reminded lately.

Below you will see a picture of my great-great grandparents and my great grandfather and his brothers and sisters. I think they didn’t dress so heavily on days like this, but even if you pull off a couple of layers, it doesn’t look too cool. (That would be a temperature statement, not a fashion judgment.)

My great grandfather Wesley Wisler is on the far left.

People magazine stresses Suicide Hotline.

Since recent high-profile suicides, much emphasis has been placed on the availability of suicide hotlines; just two months ago, Randa Jarrar tweeted about Barbara Bush, created a deluge of responses and listed a university in Arizona’s suicide hotline as her office number. This caused the line to be overwhelmed with calls.

Jarrar has faded from public attention, but maybe what the boastful tenured professor did is extremely relevant and needs to be re-visited.

After various elections, we have read or heard some celebrities declare they are moving to Canada. Well, after watching a few episodes of Under Arrest, which my grandson had selected from TV listings, I found myself thinking, “Hey, I need to move to Canada.”

This realization hit me just about the same time my grandson remarked, “They are so polite.” Well, yeah, but not only were the RCMP polite, they were much less likely to send you to the slammer than the police on some US police shows I’ve watched.

We observed more than one person resisting answering a few questions in more than an agitated manner and when they were faced with being handcuffed, reacted with such determination that it often took two policemen to struggle with them to get this accomplished. Then, after they had calmed down and been lectured, the RCMP guys said, “Well, you can go now; you’re free.”

Than there was the man who was driving intoxicated, stopped and picked up a prostitute and then the RCMP knocked on his car window. Because he was drunk, they towed his car and summarily suspended his license for 24 hours, but  then told him he could go and reclaim his car in the morning.

Granted, I only watched a few short episodes, but I was thinking, “Hey, I’m moving to Canada.” Now, this is not to say I am going to drive drunk and pick up a male prostitute . . .

When I took the flowers down to my father’s grave, I got to the cemetery and remembered that, “Oh, yeah, there is no pump here.” This was not a big problem because I knew that my cousin Duane lived just down the road.

The cemetery was on a paved, narrow county road with zigs and zags because it was first a road long before surveyors came and it would veer around whatever obstacle had been there, or maybe because it followed the high ground like the Indians did.

This road continued a wee bit and then became a gravel road. Can you imagine the plume of dust that follows a car on such a road? Well, it was my car on that road and I saw that dust following me like a haboob.

I knew Duane and his wife would be at the house by the cemetery because about a month before he had been RUN OVER BY A TRACTOR. He was 84 when it happened and will be 85 this month. He remembers his mom and Daddy’s other three sisters gathering at the house and crying when my father went overseas to WWII.

Phyllis, Duane’s wife, was making  – as in actual homemade – waffle cones for the little diner near by that served iced cream when we got there; but not to worry, she was on the last one. There is something comforting about entering a home where things like that are done.

Duane was on the sofa watching a baseball game, not a bad way to spend the summer, but not really what he would have chosen. Duane’s family has been in farming since at least before his paternal grandfather, and in just about the same area. He doesn’t just use and discard and that is why he was on a 60 year-old tractor that he felt had a little more life in it.

If a tractor could think, it might have disagreed because it kept dying. Duane kept climbing off and crawling under it and fiddling with some component and then continued pulling fence posts. And, one time – the last time for that day, he either forgot to take it out of gear or he jostled the gearshift getting down.

So, after some fiddling from underneath, the engine caught and ran for ten seconds, long enough to run over his right thigh, his collarbone, his back and pin his right hand under a wheel. Fortunately, there had been so much rain that the ground gave way and he got mushed into the mud more than being squashed between hard dirt and tractor wheels.

Of course, he is still outside and under a tractor and his phone is in his right pocket. He managed to reach across with his left hand and get the phone, but the sun was glaring on the screen. So he figured the last person he had called was Phyllis and chanced that option. He was right. His message: Come get me.

I could get detailed now, but it’s probably better if you just imagine the scene with Phyllis wanting to call 911 and Duane saying, Nah, he was okay. They got a neighbor, then I think another one, and got the tractor off him, put him into the car, got back to the house and his daughters got there and decided to call the paramedics, who talked among themselves and airlifted him to Indianapolis.

Cat scans, MRI’s and all sorts of tests and they finally discovered his leg was bruised, his hand bruised, his collarbone broken and two vertebra in his back were cracked. So it was send him home to heal with the admonishment it would take a while because he was older. Not bad for an 84/85 year-old.

And it being the summer, it won’t interfere too much with his practice of attending the local high school basketball games. One of my first bedtime stories, by the way, was “The Night Duane Broke his Arm Playing Basketball.”

So, I got my water from Phyllis in a Prairie Farms milk container and went to the cemetery . . . and I keep that container in my trunk to remember my dad and my links to my family in Fountain County and waffle cones and farm neighbors and old tractors.

After attacking weeds and trying to keep the grass mowed between pouts of rain, nothing much has been done by moi in the yard. This is not to lead  you to understand I have been working inside. No. I have been, for the most part, letting the days go by while I loiter around.

There is a word for it: LAZY.

I did decide, however, that I should make some effort to improve the outside. So I went to the garden center and bought hostas, to add the the many that are already in the back. I do not particularly care for hostas, but it is almost impossible to kill them. For me, that is a very critical point.

FYI: You can throw a hosta in the trash, leave it for a day, change your mind, take it out, replant it and it will grow just fine. If I were a doctor, I would need to have patients like hostas.

I also bought what I consider to be an ugly plant because a lady also in the perennial area mentioned that they were really tough. I hope so.

Now, as to planting them, well, we are predicted to have rain almost all day, so they will have to manage in the vestibule for a day. They should be able to do that. I don’t think of it as being unkind; it is more that I am helping them to be all that they can be.

I turned on the TV today and it was already on Turner Classic Movies and Dial M for Murder was on. Although slightly bummed I had missed the first half, I grinned to myself and thought YES!!!

I remember watching as a young girl on Frances Farmer Theater broadcast out of Indianapolis, as a teenager when it would be featured on the late movie, and so forth until my 30’s. Then we got a VCR and I would go down to this little hole in the wall video store and stare at all the classic movies I could now watch at will instead of waiting/hoping for one to show up on the schedule.

When that happened, I watched some old movies for awhile and then, well, they were so easy to get that it didn’t seem so special. DVD rental stores and Redbox seemed to come up with a constant stream of new movies and the early video stores that usually had a young person sitting behind a counter reading a book while he minded the store faded away.

Movies would become old box office before I even realized they had been in theaters. There are a multitude of movies of which I have no knowledge – sometimes to my good fortune. TV’s got bigger and clearer and there was microwavable movie popcorn. That’s fine, but it just doesn’t seem as special.

I like the idea of a treat that harkens back to the days when you had to wait for it – to get lucky. Black & White, Hitchcock, dialogue, great plots, old-time movie stars. And I do mean old time, as in old enough that my parents would say something like, “Look how young Ray Milland looks” and with a sigh, remark about Bing Crosby, “He just can’t sing like he used to.”

Of course, now the “young” Ray Milland who looked old to me as a young girl now appears young to me as well. And alive. Sorry, bad taste to type that little aside.

Movies like Dial M for Murder demanded that you listen to and savor every line of dialogue. Hitchcock had filmed the movie in the manner in which it had been a hit play – pretty much in one location, instead of using multiple scenes to depict the action. You have to pay attention as the characters tell you what happened. And with just that, with no special effects, no computers, he created tremendous suspense. The pieces click together so smoothly, the plot is a true art form. Yes, I’m using present tense: movies such as this will always relevant and good, very good.

My normal trash pick-up day is Wednesday – as in the crack of dawn and maybe even before that. That means, of course, that Trash Day is really Tuesday – as in “try to get it out in the evening and not wake up at 2 am with the thought: TRASH.

This is especially important in the summer when the daylight lasts long and people take walks and you do not want to set smelly trash bins by the curb until it’s almost dark . . . but that entails thinking “Don’t forget the trash” all day long. It can be onerous.

BUT, when Monday is a holiday, trash pick-up is moved one day later, so all day Tuesday you think your trash mantra and then have to follow it up with: BUT, NO, IT’S TOMORROW. Then when tomorrow comes – which is today – you must not fall into the usual thought process of believing the weekly trash crisis has passed.

NO. It is still hanging over your head. Right now, I am aware that the trash goes out tonight, and I have to think that all day. I do not have a “smart” house that turns on lights and heaven knows what else. No, my house will not tell me at dusk to take the trash out. But, forget the lights, forget the thermostat, forget security, just having the house tell me to get out the door with trash might be worth it. Although, that would involve remembering to change the schedule when a holiday is on Monday . . .

My usual response: SIGH

My father died in February of 2000; this was the 19th Memorial Day that flowers were placed on his grave. Mother’s last trip with me to Fountain County Fraternal Cemetery was in 2008; she couldn’t go in 2009 – she was dying, but she kept it from us. So I went alone, not knowing that in 2010 I would be making trips to both the cemetery in Fountain County and one in Sturgis, Michigan.

Recently – that means the last two years – I couldn’t get to my dad’s grave so my cousins put flowers there for me. They said they “talked to Uncle Bob and told them how much I loved him.” And I was so grateful to them.

This year was looking iffy, but I decided I was going, and my grandson accompanied me. It was a long trip and I didn’t get back until way after 10 pm, but back there in central Indian was a big pot of geraniums, hand-delivered to the man who always held my hand.

That made it a good day . . . and maybe tomorrow I’ll write about the little engine glitch that resulted in us sitting for two hours in a dealership service waiting room in Lafayette – but they had free muffins and the technicians got the car in right away, replaced a part and had the geraniums back on our way. And, actually, maybe that  helped to make it a better day. Those geraniums made it to a soldier who would have been 100 years old this November.