YES!! I got the spark plug out and I took it over to Ralph at Hayden Honda; I held it in front of me, still in the little spark plug remover socket, sort of like an altar boy with a candle. He verified it was fouled and showed me the carbon particle that was misdirecting the spark. So, with new spark plug in hand, I headed home and bent to the task on the garage floor. I mention that because I am suddenly wondering why I did the garage floor thing yesterday and today in two pairs of good jeans instead of a $3 pair from GoodWill.

But, anyway, I got the spark plug in and put the cover back on and . . . held my breath and turned the key and pushed the starter button and it came to life. YES! Oh, by the way, somewhere in that process, I started breathing again . . . or I would be dead now.  Sorry. That’s not my line; it’s a quote from As Time Goes By with Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer. Palmer plays the husband Lionel and I adore him. He talked about stopping breathing when he first saw Jean (Dench), then after a pause added, “Of course, I started again or I’d be dead.”

Ah, but back to the scooter; I rode it over to the fairgrounds and then down past the middle school, giving it a little gas as I did so. I thought perhaps someone might say something about the old lady on a scooter and Summer would know (without saying we were related) that it was running again. It took courage to go by the school; I had to tell myself, “Steady now; you don’t want to fall and humiliate her.” Of course, my imagination had me crashing and the paramedics coming and someone saying, “Say, Summer, isn’t that YOUR grandmother?” But by the time I made it through that scenario, I had already negotiated the trip past the three sides of the school and was headed home.

Now, I guess I will clean myself up and make an appointment to have my hair colored. Gosh that will be boring. Maybe I’ll just wear my helmet all the time . . .

I woke up thinking to myself that I should try to do something about the spark plug. Finding it would be a good start and so, after running Alison to work, I figured out how to access the spark plug area – which is under a floor panel next to the gas cap cover panel. There’s stuff in there all right – tubes and little metal machiney-looking doodads. I didn’t see the spark plug (which seems like it should be one word, but is not) and so came in to access the internet once again. I had time to do this because it is East Noble’s Collaboration Wednesday. You can just hear the deadpan disdain with with those four words were enunciated in my mind as I typed, can’t you? Perhaps it was even deadpan total disdain. Right now I am forcing myself to throttle back on this subject; I am going to a happy place. Oh, gee, the happy place turned out to be me in my imagination using a sledge hammer on the school corporation windows.

OH! I went off to take Summer to school and forgot to push publish so now I have to decide if I want to add part two of the morning in this post or not. I’ll think I’ll tell you the rest in a new one.

Okay, I went over to Hayden Honda and Ralph, who is a very, very nice man, told me that it could very well be the air filter; when I changed it, which he showed me how to do, a lot of liquid did indeed drain on the ground. However, the battery was very low and so I went  back and got a charger for a motor scooter- sized battery. It finally charged . . .  but it still won’t start. I think the spark plug is fouled and I have watched a YouTube video on changing the plug on a Metropolitan. The narrator says, though, “It’s kind of tricky” at one point and I am at the big sigh stage.

I know there are probably a number of people within two football field lengths of me who could whip a new one in but my psychic vibes are not reaching them.

Ah, yes, someone who shall not be named admitted she got “cocky” and tried to get up speed for a fast run downhill. Well, it was downhill, all right – the sliding crash of throttle doom; it was uphill pushing it home. I know; I pushed it. At the last intersection, a pickup was turning and he motioned for me to go ahead, but I was enjoying the little rest and indicated he should go ahead and turn. So, he did and as he was passing, I accidentally leaned against the handlebars and hit the horn. So, there I stand, balancing a scooter on my hip and waving my hands that I didn’t mean it – that it was an accidental blow. Fortunately he grinned.

Well, that is all we are going to say about this.

Today I think I am going to go through the house and clean and toss out trash. Gee, it is hard to say no more about the above.

Real hard.

Roosevelt announced on a radio broadcast that the bombers had taken off from Shangri-La; actually they had come from an aircraft carrier. They were young men then. This week four of them sat in front of their pictures from those days and signed autographs.

Doolittle Raiders from left, Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole, Lt. Col. Robert L. Hite, Maj. Thomas C. Griffin and MSgt. David L. Thatcher

Signing autographs.

They walk with canes now.

All pictures: Staff photo by Jim Noelker of the Dayton Daily News.

That would be two in the morning. Why? Angst? No, I am having a little problem with sinus stuff draining backward when I lie down, and it makes my eye hurt. It awoke me earlier and I tried a position which caused it to drain and the pain to go away, but my neck started to hurt. I fell back asleep but woke again and got up and took some aspirin and now I am sitting here waiting for snot to relocate. I could have put that better, but I went with the mainstream expression. Actually, I am not of the mainstream in this – I was just trying to fit in. My parents didn’t use words like “snot” and my father certainly did not encourage me to do so. Usually, I say mucus but people who don’t know me sometimes look at me as if I am “too good” for “snot”. Well, that’s not true. I just don’t see the point of saying it when mucus will do. I am certainly not above mucus jokes when the situation truly fits it. For instance, Mother used to buy “goof” expensive paint from Varns and Hoover in Middlebury for pennies on the dollar. Once she brought down a gallon of a sage-like shade that when wet looked like a used kleenex right after a big blow. I did not say anything to her, but when Quentin and I were standing side by side painting the shed, I mentioned what I believe we were both thinking: If we had to sneeze and didn’t have a handkerchief, we should run out and aim at the shed. No one would know.

I am getting my mind off my headache, you see; am I giving you one? Sorry, it was unintentional.

We rode the scooter at the fairgrounds yesterday afternoon, first around the circuit in the trees and then on the flat, more expansive surface by the entrance, merchants’ building and grandstand. Cameron took a header on a tight corner, but was all right. I didn’t see it; I just thought he was taking a long time getting back. Then when we practiced maneuvering a little on the flatter area, Sydney decided he was going to follow us and we were afraid of wearing him out, so we headed home. Oh, by the way, Spikey was tucked in my windbreaker with her little face showing below my neck. I forgot about her, but I do remember thinking the few people I saw had perplexed expressions on their faces. Perhaps they could hear her ultrasonic screaming. “Not the tree!!! Not the tree!!!!”

It did occur to me that perhaps C’s accident was a bit of karma related to the decision not to go see the B-25’s and pay respect to the four of the eight Doolittle Raiders who were well enough to go to Wright-Patt and sign autographs for the – uh- snots who were born about 5o years  after those thirty seconds over Tokyo. Did I mention that I stood in the kitchen and loudly announced to anyone within earshot that one of the men had spent 40 months is a Japanese POW camp?

Well, my headache has abated, but I believe my blood pressure is going up so I will try lying down again.

Yes, I slid the side of my scooter past the front of the Hayden Honda pickup truck with the trailer attached.  I guess I didn’t slide past it; there was friction involved and my mirror has to be tightened. You see, there are lines painted on the asphalt for use for gauging how much control you have of your bike. Okay, okay. It’s a motorcycle test. I don’t have to actually pass it because I have a scooter, but it would be a good thing to do . . .because of the skill thing, dontcha know.

The truck was not damaged and I was okay, but wouldn’t you know it, the EMS were just coming out to the ambulance, which was parked close to the red Hayden Honda truck and they exclaimed, “AmeliaJake, are you okay?” They were very, very nice and not at all judgmental of my being 61 and on a scooter.

So I got back on and maybe hitting the truck was a good thing because I sense something clicked in my brain that connected to a reflex and I now lean away from things as much as steer away from them. And, believe me, that helps.

I know this doesn’t seem like the wisest thing I have done, but it may be a revitalizing risk. I can learn to do something new; I do realize physical conditioning is important to this and my health in general. I’m wearing a helmet. I am not going to be going fast on highways; I will be actually using the workings of my body, not using its blob quality  as the lap for a laptop.

And doing it, getting on that machine that can spurt forward, makes me aware that there is in me a little resolve, a tiny bit of courage, a  smidgen of determination. One more thing: My dad tried and tried to teach me patience; we both thought he had failed, but I am going at this in steps – practicing, absorbing, practicing, absorbing  . . . breaking down maneuvers into segments. I do not have the attitude that I am going to ride this scooter NOW come hell of high water, although I feel that urge. I am not heeding it however, I am being patient.

Oh, cripe, AmeliaJake, the pun lady, just realized it is only logical to make some comment about being a patient.

I DRIVE MYSELF CRAZY.

After spending some time reading about the risks of scooter riding and second guessing myself, I drove over to Hayden Honda and spent over an hour and a half on my scooter. Next time they are thinking of putting up cones for me to let me see what the motorcycle test is like even though you don’t need one for scooter in this state. I think the hardest part has been learning to control the throttle with my hand and to develop a bit of sensitivity to the amount of pressure needed. But, hey, this is only my second time out so we all know I am a bona fide expert. I will continue my studies I suppose under the tutelage of Newfie who learned to ride cycles on the cliff roads of Newfoundland. Or was it “hogs” she was riding? Yes, maybe it was German hogs and the name was Helmut, but I got it mixed up with helmet. Spiffie reminds me that if I get Newfie’s goat, I might end up wearing  a hog for a helmet. Well, no one tell Newfie and everything will be just fine.

Dear Newfie,

Do you like the stationery I had made with my picture? I got some for you also and put it in your cubby hole at the Peanut Butter Cafe. Did you know I heard AJ say that she thought you rode pigs in Newfoundland? It seems like an interesting story; I’m going to tell the others and maybe you can give a lecture on it at the next meeting of the lodgers’ ice cream social.

Your friend, Spiffie

WHAT! Spiffie, I rode motorcycles during

the war, patrolling and looking for U-boats

trying to sneak in! That AJ drives me

CRAZY! Oh, rats. What happened to my

goat? Your friend, Newf.

Have I mentioned that I have a pair of purple mocs from Lands End that were only $10 because they were “On the Counter”? They are for me to wear during my Native American dance lessons with  NaPoo. I first have to attend an attitude class about being careful about trying dances without proper instruction. Apparently you just don’t dance for rain without knowing what you are doing.  Supposedly they have a film of a rain dance and an ark. Oh, of course, I am kidding; they didn’t have video back then.

Precision in intent is extremely important . . . and if you are dabbling in revenge, you have to be very careful not to trigger the infamous boomerang effect.

However, if I get in trouble, look at this neat little credit card sized kit Der Bingle sent me:

Between this and my chainsaw and a scooter for a getaway, I might be okay. Of course, I will have to learn to travel in more than four foot 5 mph spurts. Then again I might be really great at moc dancing. ( My friends here at the PBC & R are laughing at me . . . I hear them saying ‘mock’ dancing and giggling. I guess I’ll have to investigate the super secret Pun Dance. That will show them, oh yeah.)