I had to look up this lady’s name because only once did I run across an account of her decades ago in a book about Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. I really should have looked more into her life; I should have realized that an short anecdotal reference in a book does not normally stay with you for several weeks, then months, then years, then decades without it being very meaningful.

The nutshell gist – and that’s getting pretty basic – of the reference is that Isabella and Eleanor were girlhood friends and, in fact, Isabella’s first husband, Robert Furguson, was at one time a suitor of Eleanor’s. Her brother Hall confided later to a friend that he had been rooting for Robert, rather than Franklin.

Well, in the early years of both marriages, Robert was diagnosed with tuberculosis and he and Isabella moved to Arizona for his health. Apparently Isabella managed to blend the architecture and style of the Southwest with the familiar furnishings of the quite upper class lifestyle of far away New York society. Eleanor visited at one time and wrote in a letter to a friend that Isabella had made such a pleasant home, both in comfort and good cheer that she said it almost made one wish they had a husband who had tuberculosis and had to go to Arizona.

I do not have that type of personality; I wish I did. However, if the best I can do is recognize the gift Isabella had and shared, then I am at least glad that for a few minutes every now and then I can see what I should have had the good sense to strive for.

I decided I’d rest today – on a sofa, in front of a TV; I should have planned a series of DVD’s, either a binge or a bit of this and that of favorite movies. I threw myself to the fate of cable TV, however, and have watched several dark shows, thinking, “Oh, how dark can it be? At least it’s not a brainless comedy.”

Leaning toward the educational side, I switched over to a show on Pompeii, a topic that has fascinated me for years. It is not a bad show, but I’ve seen it before and I find the “fragile and rare finds not seen before . . .” artifacts not really exciting. A lady with the long white hair – down past her shoulders long – tried to blow on an conch, once eaten my Romans and then recycled as a trumpet for the theater. It made me think of Woodstock 45+ years later.

Just now, I have again visited the graffiti left on a brothel wall and listened as another docent translated it, using humming noises when the four letter words were used. Mostly, I simply feel like complaining and criticizing today. I am sitting here talking to the TV on how I want the show to be organized. A documentary on Yellowstone is coming up; there’s fodder for some AJ eruptions.

Of course, I could go to the ID channel and learn all the mistakes criminals make so I’ll have a list of what not to do.

I am holding down the guest love seat in a hospital room; it is really something I would like to have at the house. One end pulls out to make a bed and I’m going to make a video. The vending machine on this floor is of a new design – I’m going to film it also. Yes, I am that easily that amused.

Oh, LZP sent Icebat Batman and there will be a picture of him also. See, there’s something to look forward to.

I remember several years ago, the movie It’s a Wonderful Life was playing all the time- first on TV because there was something about no fees for the stations and later, in stores during the Christmas season.

I have found the perfect movie to play on the TV mounted up on the wall here in at the PBC – Thelma & Louise; I haven”t decided which one I am yet, though I can’t see myself calming robbing a market.

Yes. we had our own little SNAFU here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and put the little hook in the eyelet on the screen door, closed the big old winter door and pasted a CLOSED sign in the window. After whatever number of days it has been (This is not a Ted Koppel hostage situation), I decided that the being closed thing wasn’t getting me anywhere.

So I – without consulting my compatriots, such as Foo of the FooBar – just up and took the sign down and opened up the doors. The Peanut Butter is on the shelf, bread and knifes are handy and I guess we could stir up a cure.

Can’t guarantee the conversation, however; somebody may climb on a table and turn it into a soapbox; it’s about as much an unknown as can be, just a bunch of tomorrows.