I am perched on the corner of the sofa on the porch, but inside my skin I am running around in circles, overwhelmed by all the stuff I should be doing. This is the old clinging to the roof like a flattened squirrel scenario  – wanting to end my agony by just stopping the clinging and falling, but aware that the splat might be painful and lead to me being stretched out on the couch in great pain.

Or is it the purse upending on a windy day scenario – me chasing things flying around a parking lot and into the road, not knowing which piece of paper to trot after next?

I don’t think it’s the chicken with the cut-off head, because that really isn’t a chicken whirling and flapping around the yard; it a headless chicken. The head of the chicken has no sensation of the flapping . . . maybe. I think it would, if anything, sense strong panic and doom. Or as they say in the news venue – closure.

I steadied my nerves with a cold Diet Coke and a crunchy foldover.

This is (I think) Tiffany and (I know) Sydney. It was taken when poor Tippy was still alive but he was always so shy I don’t think it can be him. Tiffany is the cat at Mother’s who came into the house shortly after Tippy’s sudden and totally unexpected death. I am hesitant to post this because Sydney and I suspect she may have evil powers. We once made an unkind comment about her and found ourselves ill for a couple of days.

Look at your own risk . . . Oh, I should have said that first. Sorry.

I took it in my head to stick my hand with a camera in it out the car window so this is driving in Indiana with a hand out the window . . . holding a point and shoot camera.

I went and saw it with my daughter-in-law and Summer and Colin . . . mainly I went because Quentin had said he was going and I thought it was going to be a really clever little animated parody. Well, the panda was cute. One of the kung fu experts was a SNAKE and I couldn’t bear to watch her. I think little kids liked it.

These have been days with events flowing one into another: Robert’s leg will probably need surgery; I got a free gift for buying skin products at the Estee Lauder counter – nice little tote bag; I drove to Fort Wayne to pick up a prescription for Robert because the orthopedic office won’t call in narcotic painkillers to a pharmacy. Had to show my driver’s license even. Mowed the backyard; pulled weeds: worked with Summer with the weed-wacker and thought of making an Indiana Weed-Wacker Massacre video for YouTube, but didn’t; got disgusted with TLC for showing the Jon and Kate make Eight episodes over and over again; went out to see Mr. Feller at the hospital; washed the big sofa throw and draped it over the fence to dry in the sun.

Oh, shoot. Is it going to rain tonight? Must I get it? I think it will smell even better with the morning dew dampening it and then it drying once again in sunlight. Oh, yeah, that’s my plan. So, we’re betting against rain.

Been looking at Iowa flood pictures, wishing my brothers-in-laws were digital camera fiends deluging me with pics. Hey, I picked up the porch – some – and gathered a whole bag of stuff to throw away. I will never be a minimalist. I am a natural hoarder. I am soldiering on, though.

No reason to be writing this drivel, but it keeps my fingers limbered up. And if I limber up the rest of me, maybe I can be Kung Fu Grandma.

Oh, wait a minute. There was one line from Kung Fu Panda that I memorized: “Some times we find our destiny on the road we chose to walk down to avoid it.” See, you can make that mean anything and it sounds cool. An editor, Nancy, once called me up and said they needed one of those ending paragraphs that I was known for that sounded wise and lyrical but meant nothing. Ah, we all have our talents.

Here I sit in a body that has had sweat dry on it and in clothes that have been soaked with that same sweat. Actually, they are dry too . . . and a little smelly at this point. My hair is a mess of gunk stuck in a rubber band and my feet – ah, my feet – are propped up on a coffee table.

Two years ago this August, Robert broke his ankle in a horrific manner and then last year he was limping so much, we had him go back to the doctor . . . who said, “Stress fracture; had you been on it any longer it would have shattered.”

Last night I noticed the leg was swollen . . . a lot; I noticed a strong limp. I asked, “Does it feel like it did when you developed the stress fracture last year?” Well, yes it did. He said that at first and then tried to back away from it, but we’ve got him down at the orthopedic office again to see if once more the die has been cast.

Well, we’ll see.

But as I was outside mowing part of the yard, it occurred to me that while we don’t have the romance of the pioneer experience, everyday all of us are making it through our days, or at least trying. When things are over, we may look back and talk of tales of invalid beds in living rooms or autos in accidents or flooding or storms or job losses or sick children or parents . . . or sick ourselves . . .and remember it as a time of rising to the occasion. We might even take pleasure in the memory of pulling together – of getting through the situation.

I’m not so certain we don’t all wrangle our way through our lives . . . no matter where we live.

But, in truth, I don’t think any of us really, truly face the hardships of the pioneers. Heck, even people doing the basic work of pioneers – the labor of the fields – can come in to air conditioning and TV availability. And Internet. And the advantages of modern medicine and modern transportation and modern communication.

So I guess our main endeavor should be to make the best of what has been given us. To think there ought to be a standard of behavior, a civility in out conduct. To be self-reliant and not expect hand-outs. To be accountable . . .

Oh, well, that’s my rambling for now . . . I’m off to clean up and get on with things. I want to be straight up about this, though, before I go. I have to admit I’m one to want someone else to do all these things and then point in my direction and say, “She’s with me.”

Kind of the free lunch thing . . .

Guess I’ve got to clean up my whole act.

See that line between the paint above and the washed out part below? That is where the woodpile reached when we stopped painting because of weather last fall. This is only the smallest of the woodpiles, dry old wood that we mix in with that which is not as seasoned. Shall we remove the rest of the wood and paint to the bottom or just paint to our winter line? I think I know right off the bat.