I had my teeth cleaned yesterday – along with the charting of my gum health tooth by tooth. You sit there and one of the hygienists calls out a series of numbers: 3, 2, 2, 1, 2, 1, 3 and so forth while another writes them down. It deals with the amount of gum that has pulled away from your teeth. Actually, I think it is a code by which secret messages are sent.

Perhaps the hygienist is a Dandelion agent who is passing along vital info about the defenses planned for the next invasion. Or maybe there is no secret agent stuff; maybe they are just doing a version of Navajo code talking regarding the patient. Not that they would because they are nice ladies. Still, it might be tempting to making a comment about “shark mouth” or “snake fangs” or whatever.

Sometimes even I have to shake my head at the things my mind spends time on . . .

I didn’t post yesterday – not because I was traumatized by a dentist visit – but because they have Sit and Read paperbacks in the waiting room. It is a program sponsored by the library: you start reading, take the book home and bring it back to a participating waiting room. So yesterday I read a book titled The Spire about a golden boy, his mentor and a 16-year-old murder case.

Richard North Patterson was the author and I chose his book over one that dealt with a world catastrophe every 4,500 years that could be averted by finding the gold capstone to a big Egyptian pyramid. This device would reflect the massive solar beam that could zap the earth. However, the blurb on the back indicated the book was all about the politics and adventures of finding the capstone. I don’t think there was any description of a past zapping or a pre-zap before The Big One.

I was just a few pages into The Spire when I just knew who the bad guy was  and looked at the back to verify my determination. Then I went back and read the ENTIRE book. This drives some people absolutely crazy. “Oh, you CAN’T look at the end. It is immoral, cheating, not allowed . . .  whatever.”

Yeah, well, at least I read the book then instead of hurrying through to see if I’m right or not. Well, unless the quality of writing makes the book a real barfer, and then I just toss it aside. I am not one who keeps reading because it “might get better”. (And, by the way, I read two paragraphs in the destruction book and it was a  barfer.)

I think I discern a mood trend here and maybe I’ll set out the warning flares around me.

Yes, I got up off the sofa yesterday and did a whole bunch of things, including working on the bathroom floor. And other household things. Sheeesh! Today is another wet day in the 50’s and again my feet are by a space heater.

BACK OFF, SOPHIE!!!      I’ll get going in a moment . . . . Okay?

But first I have to make myself realize that we are not still in March and that Memorial Day Weekend is, not this one, but the very next one. That means one week from today I will be heading down to Kingman with my traditional geranium, spike and ivy urn . . . and maybe a granddaughter. I think I’m going to see if I (we) can bunk at Glenda’s and then come back on Thursday.

Der Bingle is coming on Thursday from The Ohio Redoubt and so we’ll be back in time to push him into the car and head him off for a physical at the doctor’s at 9 am on Friday. I don’t know why I put “at the doctor’s” because I can’t see sending him to a plumber, electrician or accountant for that purpose . . . although maybe they will talk plumbing. Okay, okay, no more little jokies.

Serious face now. So, after the Kingman urn delivery, there will be four more “urnings” at two more cemeteries. And only one week to get them ready! The weather has let the calendar sneak up on us. Three weeks after Memorial Day, it will be the longest day of the year, and that seems impossible. For the most part, we have been in a Big Gray Chill  since the shortest day right before Christmas.

Must concentrate on getting urns ready. Must. Must. Must.

Hey, Sophie, put “URNS” on a post-it note and stick it on your forehead.

I did a lot of stuff yesterday and boasted about it and, hey, I’m not upset about doing that. Somebody has to pat the mulch-toter on the back (and don’t forget the lawn mowing). Today, I am a dud; I am plopped on my sofa with my feet in front of a space heater because it is 51 degrees outside, cloudy and damp. If I had an “e” handy, I wouldn’t even attempt to stick it onto my dud self, because it is comfy being a dud today. Let someone else be the cool dude.

Oh, dear, here she is. Sophie, Rose’s assistant counselor, and right now Acting Counselor since Rose is visiting the Ohio Redoubt.

Sophie is giving me the eye and a bit of advice, which comes across differently than when Rose does it.

Make something of this day, you dud, before I whack you upside the head with my sneaker.

Say, doesn’t that little Sophie body look nice and soft? Almost like a pillow.

Oh, wait, she is getting a phone call from Rose. She’s listening and looking at me and listening and looking at me. There she goes to check the manual Rose left for her. Her little mouth is pursed up and her brow a bit wrinkled but she’s nodding and telling Rose, “Okay.”

Ah, what a sweet face is turning to gaze at me with heartfelt affection . .

So, little AmeliaJake, just think how one day when you’re sick or older and want to be up doing something. Why, you’ll look back on this day and regret the heck out of being a dud. Feel the vibrant power that still resides in  your 62 year old body. Now get up and be . . .  AMELIAJAKE.

Okay, okay, I see your point. You’re right. I’m up and getting myself going. Sophie, Rose would be proud of you.

OVERHEARD WHISPER: Yeah, well the sneaker maneuver would have been more exhilarating.

***
Sophie has two business cards. This is the one Rose doesn’t know about:

Sophie’s Counseling – THE BUSINESS END

Today I got up, took Cameron to school, puttered around with some laundry, went and had my blood drawn, came home and mowed, gathered up extension cords outside (while I was mowing), made barbeque with real roast, went to Wal-Mart and bought mulch, opened and emptied mulch bags, did more laundry . . . and read a couple of blogs and news articles.

Now I need a shower but I am sofa-ing it for awhile until I get up the ambition to do that. Right now it is lying around on the floor – an “a” here, an “m” there and the rest of the letters scattered between the here and the there.

I found four letters in my pocket: o,f,a,l. I am certain they are to line up as loaf. Maybe an exclamation point is caught in my cuff, making it imperative: LOAF! Who am I to argue?

You don’t know it but there was a spell of time between that last paragraph and this one because I was savoring the essence of the loaf. Yes, loaf is a good verb, but sometimes it is definitely nounish. Ah, life. Ah, loaf. It is probably not a coincidence that all it takes is a “t” to make float. (Yes, I know oaf is in there, as well – it’s some alphabetical illusion or whatever.)

Say, why do they always chant “There’s no “I” in team”? There’s a great big ME in it. See, you’ve got to think these slogan things through.

Aha, the temperature started to fall with the raindrops, so we moved our impromptu cookout from the backyard to the ancient garage – and besides it is good practice for when we paint the decklets and have to stay off during the painting layers stages. (I made up that term.)

AmeliaJake – me, dontcha know – found some Christmas lights and a tiki torch:

Then I caught Cameron smiling. (Grandpa had scored manager special steaks!)

Of course, Summer had an opinion to express to Grandpa.

And Grandpa is maybe listening.

But his expression caused these guys to get diabolical.

Meanwhile Shane ignored everything and kept his eye on the beef.

That’s a long post title, but I forgot to put one on the last one, so it will even out.  It, the last one, is listed as 5327; it’s a sign, I just know it. My birthday is August 27 and 5+3=8 and 27 = 27. Der Bingle would be groaning now because my memory tricks drive him  – I was going to say crazy –  and I’m sticking to it.  We are the generation of the “wild and crazy guy” – Steve Martin.

I popped open the computer to share my regret that Troy Landry of Pierre Part is going to be covered with water from the Morganza Spillway. I believe his family lived there since way before the spillway was built in 1937. He piqued my interest and I do what I always do – I researched. Turns out they say the same thing about him that they do about Regis Philbin: He’s a genuine nice person. Philbin was the subject of a New Yorker article some years past and the author remarked several times how he did all he could to help her. The writer of a piece on Landry said the same thing.

There are people all over the country like this, but until the advent of reality shows almost none of them were recognized by a cross-section of the populace. Oh, maybe a newspaper article here and there, but you never got to appreciate the day-to-day kindness and decency.

Once when we lived in Cincinnati, I ventured into Southern Indiana for the heck of it and got lost. There was an angular, older man in overalls walking down a deserted road. I pulled up to him and asked how to reach the main highway. He softly gave me some directions and then gave a slow smile and said, “Well, that will get you near there anyways.” He reminded my of my grandfather who would sit every night with a neighbor who was dying of cancer. I wasn’t alive then, but I heard that story told more than once . . . and always out of his earshot.

My husband’s grandfather –  W. A. to folks of his generation – was like that too. We have in our house a little chair that came from the Sunday School room in a small church in Harmony Twp, Hamilton County, Illinois. W. A. and Great-Grandma Lydia painted it for Robert William when he was a wee boy. I remember the day they brought it over.

I also remember one time I was there for lunch and he came in and hung his straw hat up next to Grandma’s, grinned and asked if I thought they’d fight. Ah, here’s a picture of the Old Timers’ Game – he’s in the back row, far right. I’ll have to have Der Bingle or LZP date this.

Well, I started talking about a flood and I fell into a flood of memories.

I woke up this morning thinking about what a counselor had said some years ago about a college in the area: “They had the first peace program.”  In addition,  a whole lot of colleges were giving military recruiters  grief for having booths on campus. Along with that, I remembered reading about graduates from some colleges announcing that they would not work for businesses  that they considered exploitive and other negative adjectives.

I talked with Quentin and remarked that some jobs required tough decisions; did these people with an alleged conscience and top-college intellectual prowess expect second-raters to make the best decisions in a non-Pollyanna world. Sort of an ‘I’m too moral to associate myself with reality’ so we’ll just let the weasels really take advantage’ mindset?

Seriously, I’m not just grumbling around here. Think about it.

Actually, I was sweaty up until about 30 minutes ago when I showered and was mortified to learn that I had used a shower gel called SNAKE PEEL. I don’t know; it was there and it was orange and without my glasses on I thought it said SHAKE WELL.

But then it is Friday the 13th and I did see a real snake today when Summer and I mowed at Mother’s. We had totally forgotten the date, though, and so the snake nor the incident of the belt coming off the Wheel Horse didn’t seem preordained. The grass had grown more than I expected and so we mowed more than we had intended – the ‘old mow the front and east part’ strategy gave way to ‘mow until your butt hurts soooo bad’ plan. We didn’t know this was the strategy at the time but it turned out to be a determining factor. And, of course, rain was in the prediction so we decided we had better hurry and get the mowers  put away. (snicker)

I thought about the comments I received regarding Pioneer Woman and Chef Ramsay while I was mowing.  It would be an interesting encounter. Ramsay does have a bit of an accent so I suppose for clarity’s sake, his voice will be P-Dubbed in.

Why look there, Mildred. His lips don’t seem to match the words. Odd, isn’t it, how excited and red his face was when he said, “My, my, this is certainly a lovely risotto.”

But on with the day . . . we stopped by the cemetery and a black squirrel crossed our path and then we turned up Fawn River Road but had to turn around because a big wreck had just happened. That’s when we realized it was Friday the 13th.

Summer pointed out that we had been lucky: The belt went back on; we had taken extra gas; the snake was a little garter one; black squirrels are all over the Sturgis Cemetery; we weren’t in the spot of the wreck a few seconds earlier when it occurred. I told her to knock on wood because we still had to get home. We should carry wood in our Buick because I did get home but I took a shower with SNAKE PEEL.

You don’t suppose it could be some sort of retribution for the spark plug do-da-doo-da-dooing, do you?