I have to shut up and not say anything about the movie Shutter Island because the twists and turns are not fascinating enough to watch again once you know the ending. Well, that’s my opinion. It is no Casablanca or Alfred Hitchcock movie; nosireebob.

Now I am waiting to watch Breaking Bad after Ice Road Truckers. That’s my schedule. Two hours of my life. Oh, well, I’m not is a mode to be philosophical; I’m in a mood to pour the Crystal Light Peach Mango Green Tea powder into a bottle of water and kick off my shoes – oops, the socks came with them.

Might as well stretch out and relax.

I didn’t get out of the car to take this picture; I had mowed and was tired and only driving out did I remember I wanted a photo. So I hit the automatic window button and picked up the pretty much automatic camera and grabbed a couple of shots. The light was from the west and my driver’s seat was on the east side of the car, so this is what I got.

These roses came from New York State over a hundred years ago – 120 t0 150 years ago – and they bloom at first a deep rose which fades to pink and then to white. Unlike newer, designer roses, they are very fragrant.

You can see the taller grass beneath them because I was on a rider mower; some 50 years ago, I used a walk behind mower and got everything neatly trimmed. Maybe, just maybe, if I did that again, I would be trimmer also.

Some of the grandchildren of Byron and Nellie Grismore are going to get together in Covington, Indiana at The Beef House this coming week at about one in the afternoon. I thought I’d look up the website and you can see it too if you click on BEEF HOUSE. The first thing I noticed was that it has been voted the best steakhouse in Indiana, although here at The Leaning Cow, we don’t know who voted and if we want anyone to vote and, actually, if we want anyone EATING beef. But, aside from that, AmeliaJake sat down and munched a foldover and perused the luncheon menu.

And she came to this; read it carefully.

BEEF HOUSE Hamburger – 6 oz. Choice Ground Chuck Processed in our Meet Room

BEEF HOUSE Cheeseburger

Did you see it? The “Meet” Room? Is that where Chuck meets . . . well, I don’t know if I want to think about it. And the Cheeseburger? Now, is that when Chuck comes out of the Meet Room and puts on his cheese hat? I mean, it does not appear that Mr. Cheeseburger is in the Meet Room at any time. Maybe it is Colonel Mustard who goes in the Meet Room and looks for culinary secrets . . .  nah, he’s too yellow for that.

I can’t see far from this window; there are a lot of trees and shrubs in front of it. I can see a long way back, however. Back to the days when my grandmother played Old Maid with me when I was little and I cheated by looking at the reflection of the cards in her glasses and back to learning how to embroider.

The porch was always here, but the enclosure came when Eisenhower built the Toll Road; engineers rented the west rooms of the house for an office and my grandmother used the money to have the half-walls built and the metal crank-out windows installed. I remember opening the double doors and peeking into the office when they weren’t working and seeing the big drafting tables. I also remember riding on the Toll Road before it was opened, but I didn’t see much – just the dashboard in front of my face. We stopped and turned around because an overpass had not yet been built. At least that’s what they told me – it was sort of a radio adventure for me.

I can see ahead out these windows, and I can see what is here now. And what is here now is okay with me and it is okay if it changes slowly into what is ahead. It is not a matter of cleaning out – it is one of passing on things to those who will find them of use and remembrances. That is the true value for me . . . for those who knew her so long to have something that is a link to her.

Today is the 9th; I just noticed my last post was on the 5th. I did not know I was gone. I think I came here and then started to daydream and wandered away. What was it about Sunday? Der Bingle left for the Ohio Redoubt and, oh yes, I remember: I cleaned for most of the day. Don’t know what gave over me. And a toilet clogged up and the plunger wouldn’t work and so Monday I bought a closet auger and finally cleared it. I am beginning to understand why these are not days that inspired my spirit.

Yesterday I went out for brief shopping in antique Shipshewana stores and lunch. Grilled meatloaf. Then back to Mother’s and lying on the sofa starting another one of her books stacked on the floor. Sometimes I close my eyes and think of all the different times of my life  . . . and at times, when my eyes are closed, I imagine some of the ghosts of the house’s past come and look at me. If I keep my eyes closed, I think I can feel them there.

Today I mowed. How many sentences have a written in my mind over the decades of mowing that yard around that old house on an old Indian trail? Lots, I think. And sometimes I think of the sentences others have written and let the rhythm of them echo and re-echo in the bubble of silence that exists inside the chugging of the power mower.

I have learned that trash pile fires can just keep on going, after they have produced enough smoke to make a car from the sheriff’s department cruise by slowly. Yesterday I mowed (again) at Mother’s and decided to set the trash on fire. Well, I did . . . and I wound up staying overnight to make certain it was completely out. It wasn’t bad – I fell asleep quickly after tossing a not-so-good book aside and didn’t wake until it was light out. Mind you, the book was not finished; I am one of those people who can stop at any point; I do not  feel compelled by some unwritten law to read to the last page before I am freed from a story that is causing me discomfort.

I also will look to the end of a mystery story so I do not read so fast to get to the ending that I don’t appreciate the writing.  For that, quite a few people consider me a pariah. I don’t understand it; it seems logical to me.

You might remember when I was in Fairborn a few months ago I ate in a restaurant and had urges to rip off the head of a bald man. Well, I feel like ripping a head off again, but I have no one in particular in mind. I feel so irritable I could steal Sitting Bull’s chair – not that he sat in a chair. He probably sat Indian fashion with crossed-legs. So I’d grab his blanket.

But what would I do with a ripped off head? I don’t think I have considered this before. I guess I am assuming I would rip off the head and drop it and leave the area . . . and at this point I am thinking it would just get too complicated. I believe it is that explosive moment in your mind when you KNOW you would absolutely love to rip someone’s head’s off that works best for relieving stress. There’s no pretending you are some sort of understanding, compassionate, empathetic person; you are a head-ripper. You accept it; you embrace it. You are free.

I wonder if there are people who can psychically sense the presence of a “head-ripper” and are inclined to put heads back on. Why I don’t know, but that’s why I don’t have the reputation of a nice person. Well, there is the mess issue again – heads, torsos, blood. Then again there is no mess when you are talking about this going on in imagination. You can actually smile while thinking, “I want to rip your head off.”

I seem to feel better now.

Summer took this picture on her fancy new phone

And this is a wee bit of enhancement with color boost.

Cameron, Summer and I took a bit of a side trip up to Scott – the homestead of the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.  We don’t have internet there and, so I tried to post via my phone. It wouldn’t take my password to get into WordPress.  I don’t know if that is because there is a setting that must be made for BlueHost access or not. My phone is still pretty much a phone with GPS capability; it is sort of phony in terms of an internet device – well for an old fogie like moi.

It was HOT by our standards and no air-conditioning, but the house is shaded by tall trees. However, the night remained warm, not so bad really since the humidity was relatively low. Today, though, we were hit with a thunderstorm that was followed by sticky, oppressive – but not sultry – air.

Der Bingle was in Iowa with some of his brothers, or maybe all of them – a few at a time – to see his mother and visit his father’s grave in Harmony Cemetery in Hancock County, Illinois*. This would have been the time of VanceFest, but , unfortunately fate moved the place of meeting from the croquet courts of Cedar Ridge or North Liberty to the resting place of family ancestors. I’d like to think that the spirit continues with my father-in-law and W.A. himself joining in through memories. I wonder if they told the story about the one uncle who was “thrifty” and used old ammunition while pheasant hunting: the grapeshot came out of the barrel and just arced to the ground. (Corrections on this story are welcome in comments – such as was it Uncle June or Uncle Chell?”Actually, any and all stories are welcome.)

Der Bingle picked me up a couple of treats on the trip – a cow print tote and a special cow shirt. He sent some pictures on his phone but so far only one has come through.

Ah, yes, there is this thought to ponder. You have heard of the straw that broke the camel’s back . . . Well, this afternoon in Kroger’s, Der Bingle was checking out and the young high school/maybe college freshman guy looked at the marked down copy of Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull and asked if this was the one set in the desert. Der Bingle told him that it was South America. The kid stared at the front of the package and remarked, “So (old) Harrison Ford is Indiana Jones.” This story is the inspiration for a new feature on this blog: The Tipping Point.

I will get Woo to figure out how to feature it and add it into the template along with this picture.

* List and pictures on Vance graves.

Tomorrow is Kingman Fraternal Cemetery Day. I drive down with a big pot of geraniums located in the backseat –  seat belt holding them in place – and a little cooler next to me in the front. And a camera. Right now, my rear end is sore from working with the mighty wet/dry vac at Mother’s and walking behind the little mower on this little lawn.Maybe I will put a pillow on the driver’s seat for tomorrow.

Sydney is going to the kennel for some rest; Shane is staying here with the crew. HA! That is what Shane is thinking right now. He’s too young to know about laughing last laughing best. In the next couple of weeks, Sydney will be sending Shane off for a “neutral” visit to the vet/kennel. Maybe, just maybe, Shane will not feel so macho he has to run INTO cars while he is chasing them. Perhaps he can learn not to chase . . .  Nah, I’ll bet not.

I’m walking around the talking with the dead part of being at the cemetery because there is so much too say about and so little. It just is.

Throat tightening . . . Okay, backing away from that path and thinking about making certain my ipod is charged – I’ll probably listen tot he same song all the way home. For some reason Sweet Gypsy Rose is tempting my ears – maybe it’s the beat, or maybe it’s the trombone slide part. Wonder what the theme song for Thelma and Louise is – minus the off the cliff part?

I still have not decided which way I will go; I could just activate the GPS and listen to the voice repeat, “Recalculating route.” I wonder if computer voices have an exasperation aspect that can be factored in if you have a bozette driving?   After a certain point, you would hear, “Stop the car, get out, back away and wait for the police. You obviously should not be driving. In fact, don’t stand there, sit down.”

I was thinking of having Spikey and Rose and Woo and E4 and AP ride along with me, but that would probably guarantee I would be stopped by a trooper who would look at all those smiling faces and say, “Stop the car, get out . . . ” I’d have to call Foo to vouch for me. Or maybe not. I find it interesting that many people in my family practice saying, “Well, officer, yes we are making arrangements for this woman  . . . “