Yes, I went into GoodWill and there were these three stools sitting here and they were cheap and so I bought them for the kitchen and wherever. They are shorter than bar stools and taller than chair, so actually work well with the kitchen counter. How they will work with butts is yet to be seen.

The cat is not from GoodWill; she is from Mother’s. Yes, this is the famous Tiffany. Tiffany was second in line to come into the house after Lucy Lib died. Tippy was first. But no more had Lucy Lib passed away than Tippy, a streetwise outdoor cat, got sick and died on the back porch. I do not know if I am now living with a mafia-like hit cat or not now, but since she was Mother’s, she is here and being cared for. Not that I can say the same for the infamous “cat chair“.

Today’s Collaboration Wednesday 30 Minute Delay ( remarks on this issue*  here and here) has me sitting here with a little smirk on my face . . . It is Spring Bring. Mwahahahahahahahah.

*To be honest, I don’t think the school system considers my consternation with this practice an issue. They are, I believe, totally unaware of my opinion . . . because I have exercised outstanding self-control and not purchased a tank and driven it into the school building.

Actually, I did have a hard time this morning; I got up to take Alison to work, came back and did some email checking and then thought I felt crummy and lay down with a blanket over my head. Maybe it was knowing it was Collaboration Wednesday, or maybe I need to get in shape because the attic to dumpster maneuver yesterday took more of a toll on me than it would have 30 years ago. I well know that the aging in those 30 years has something to do with it, but I find comfort in focusing on the fitness part of the equation. At least, I can work a little on that. As for the age aspect, it is already almost a minute later – Darn, the aging genie is determined!

On top of it all, I have a doctor’s appointment in Fort Wayne today, so I am going to have to whip myself in shape. The thing that makes it doable is that GoodWill is across the street. But, I am not going to buy any more potential dumpster fodder; I am just going to look for the fun of it. I think the only thing I would spring for would be a nicely sized frame for my KEEP CALM and CARRY ON poster or the well-made expensive shorts that the sell for $3.50 instead of $50 or one of those little lampshades that clips on a light bulb or slight used Minnetonka  moccasins in my size or . . . Maybe I should just pass it by this trip.

On the other hand, there might be a “refugee” waiting for me; the ones with the red yard hair, dontcha know. Oh, here is something you don’t want to know, but I feel as if truth serum courses through my veins: Sometimes I look for “brain dead” Knickerbockian red-yarned people to be organ donors. Yes, it’s true.

For The Great Poo, a compatriot for some 50 plus years, I once made a whole new body and head and hair and I used the original eyes and included the original “I Love You” heart. And Jake* too since his head was accidentally ripped off when he was four. Perhaps I have been watching too many of the Medical Incredible shows; I shouldn’t broadcast these things, but maybe out there is a Knickerbocker Redhead who has a friend who will be inspired to consider a radical operation and go for it.

* I can’t show Jake’s picture because he is in the Witness Protection Program or on the lamb, one of the two.

I am not hiding my errors in this post; I am noting them as teachers in high school did.

I was up in the attic rearranging stuff so more stuff could come up. A noble endeavor, I know. And then I heard ‘Moonlight Sonata Serenade coming out of a box; that tune is my ringtone. I knew my phone had fallen from my belt, but I clutched at my waist (speaking without a nod to truth) and yes, it was gone. And the tune was no longer playing.

“Hey!” That’s what I yelled down the attic stairs. “Hey, call my cell phone.” Someone did and I found it and then I called the missing call person back. It turned out to be Key Bank and I blurted out how thankful I was he had called, that otherwise I would have been looking for my phone in the usual places and then (would have) remembered . . . oh no, the attic.

A couple of hours later I was raking up some stuff (You use the word stuff too much.) after we had thrown a lot in the dumpster and it occurred to me to check for my phone. It was gone again. This is when you breathe calmly because it is really, really necessary. I got the house phone and called my number. I listened from the attic ladder; I listened in the upstairs lobby: I listened on the stairs; I listened in the kitchen and then in the vestibule; I listened in the driveway . . . and then I listened at the dumpster . . . twice. Alison said, “Maybe hit it hit something it and it is turned off.” Oh, great. Dumpster diving for a little quiet phone.

However, I remembered I had walked into the backyard, so I did so again, dialed and listened and heard nothing. I dialed again as I approached the corner of the garage and, yes, I heard Moonlight Sonata Serenade. I didn’t have to work hard at breathing calmly anymore.

I guess I am going to have to rig up something that will circle my belt so the case can’t slip off, especially now that summer is coming up. Let’s see, I’m mowing and I realize my phone is gone and then something shoots out of the blades. I wouldn’t breathe calmly then. I think I would swear.

After the sleeper sofa mattress went in, we captured these vignettes.

My mother passed away last October shortly after her 83rd birthday. It still seems impossible that she is gone. Still, I find her everywhere from books with newspaper clippings in them to uniquely rigged repairs. I came across her yesterday in the trunk of the 1981 diesel.  It’s from 1981 –  a Delta 88 Oldsmobile – and the trunk lid is extremely heavy and does not stay up on its own. I recall knowing this, although it was not something at the front of my mind. But yesterday afternoon I took it to Wal-Mart and when I opened the trunk to carry out the transfer of stuff from the cart, I saw an old walking stick.

Yes! Aunt Sara’s walking stick. Aunt Sara was actually my grandmother’s aunt; she was the youngest sister of the oldest Wisler boy who was grandma’s father. I think the difference in their ages was about four years. Aunt Sara was the one who married the Encyclopedia Britannica traveling salesman in the first decade of the last century. She continued to travel until she was quite old and then retired to a room in New Orleans. Not my choice, but I’m not in Aunt Sara’s league.

So, here is this antique walking stick and Mother used it to prop up the diesel trunk lid. I never thought that strange. But now that she’s gone, I guess I’ll bring it in and find an old fireplace poker or something of that ilk to do the job.

Cameron was sitting here on the porch with me, talking about the debacle in Washington D.C. – the House passage of the Obama health plan. Suddenly, he paused and asked, “Where are the Canadians supposed to go now?”

That’s it. I just wanted to note his comment.

Just before they were gone . . . but Sydney knew something was afoot.

And now they are gone – Der Bingle to the Ohio Redoubt and Quentin back to Texas. But while he was here, Quentin and I scanned in some old photos he had with him.

Grandson, Grandpa . . . Quentin Vance, Robert P. Grismore

Grandma Sarah at the West Chester house.

Quentin and hamburger birthday cake.

Quentin, Shadow and Der Bingle.

Okay, we had an hour to pass while we waited for Quentin’s glasses to be made, so we went to Red Robin and here is Der Bingle sitting across from me. Great smile, eh?

And directly across from moi is Quentin. Great smile, eh?

Quentin and Der Bingle = two great smiles.

I remarked that at least we weren’t sitting across from the kitchen door which happened to us at Mimi’s and Der Bingle pointed to my right.

YES, A TIGER BUTT.

However looking in front of me I saw Woody the Woodpecker, er, could it be a Red Robin?

We all were seduced by the horseradish advertised on the ChopHouse burger, but actually it was bland. Next time I’ll stick to the Whiskey River BBQ burger.

This is me outside waiting for Q and Der Bingle. It seems my mouth is down-turned.

And here is the Q after he and Der Bingle came out and saw me sitting on a bench and said, “Come along, homeless person.”

Finally, I show you the license plate bear representing the Ohio Redoubt of the West Facing Cave.

Tomorrow . . . the diesel.

Yesterday I stared at the escalator in the Fort Wayne Airport – actually, I think “International” is there in the name – and waited to see the familiar silhouette appear from feet on up. He is never in the first group and my eyes darted around during an escalator drought – and, then, there he was walking toward me. He looked taller, but I think I am shorter. Oh, and I wore my Ray-Ban sunglasses because I think they make me look better than my regular ones. Then, when we went outside and I took them off. Go figure.

I have no pictures because when I went to get the camera to click, it didn’t and I realized the battery was sitting back in its little charger. Now, today, I want to remedy that.

I was sitting on the floor up in the sitting room working on getting a clog out of the vacuum hose, when I started thinking about how warm it was and, gee, was my head kind of sweating? All of a sudden, I pushed on the hose in just the right place and the clog dramatically sucked into the bag, and at that moment, it occurred to me to wonder what would happen if I vacuumed my head.

I figured it was pretty dusty up there on my locks and I was going to shower after I finished with the sitting room, so why not. I stuck the end of the hose – no metal wand – on the side to top of my head. It felt good; I wondered if my roots were being stimulated. I vacuumed another place on my head and thought, “No one must ever know about this.” And then I thought, “I just have to tell them.”

I really wasn’t surprised when the folks in the Foo Bar looked at me as if I were crazy. Foo paused and then asked, “Remember the time you took that online IQ test and scored 76? Had  you vacuumed your head then also?” All at once, no one thought to make a remark about me and the vacuum; they murmured a little to themselves and then Frank called out to those in the PBC & Roadhouse proper, “Hey, did you guys know AJ has an IQ of 76?”

That thrilled me; I knew it would be all over town in a flash. All the snide little remarks like remembering the winter of ’76 (snicker, snicker, snicker) and reference to The Music Man and the parade with 76 trombones (snicker, snicker) and suggestions I try out for the Philadelphia NBA team. And then I started wondering what it would be like if I used TWO vacuums on my head. I can’t experiment today, however, because the other powerful canister sucker is at Mother’s.

Gee, this takes me back to the days when I used to suck up little Fisher-Price people (accidentally) and they screamed all the way up.

Sometimes I am fairly certain my train of thought often jumps the rails . . .