A while back I visited Bellows Falls, Vermont in a cyber mode; I’ll have to check the sitemap and find the post, but for now, just know it is a small town. They tried to alert some people to their place – the home of the Miss Bellows Falls Diner **, but, well, shoot, some activists had another idea. You see, Bellows Falls hired a fellow to paint a mural on an old barn – and they fixed up the barn . . . but this state group of signs said that’s what the mural was – a sign.

But, then, the town caught a break . . . but I think not all has been said and done on this subject.

You’ll find the articles here: Boston Globe and Boston Globe 2.

** Warning, this site has music that automatically begins playing.

I had moccasins in high school and in college and probably up until I was about 25. They were Minnetonka moccasins and they had soft soles and beads. I was thinking that I would like some more and mentioned it to my husband who looked on the internet and came up with a PLACE that featured some deerskin and moosehide mocs. But, I got to thinking that I needed beaded mocs, so I looked at a Minnetonka shop: HERE.  And I saw these:

Looking at them, I suddenly got a vision of a big old fattish lady in a muu-muu dress wearing a pair of beaded moccasins . . . and it scared me.

I am thinking of just the plain deerskin ones; I am thinking of maybe waiting awhile. Perhaps I could sew on my own bead or two.

Okay, Sunday’s is a five star, one star down from the Saturday peaking one. I feel like putting myself under pressure, thinking okay, I need to solve this before the world blows up.

Brace yourself . . .

Okay, breathe once more.

The sky is blue, the temperature right now in the high 50’s – maybe low 60’s . . . and I need a shower. I am the “what’s wrong with this picture?” thingie.  Then I need to drag a trash sack around and throw away the debris of our daily living. Never in a million years would anyplace I’ve lived look like a model home or even a motel room. I have stuff here . . . and there . . . and piled on the table . . . and at the end of the sofa . . . and everywhere.

It is so me . . . so AmeliaJake.

Saturday’s paper has the hardest Sudoku of the week in it; we are starting it now. If we don’t come back, well, we don’t know – we probably blew a brain gasket.

UPDATE: I got the puzzle, so that’s cool . . . but, look at the sentence above? Why am I referring to myself in the royal “we”?

Today, with his mother working at the hospital – doing the nursing gig – Cameron came down and invited his brother and sister into his room to watch a movie (The Simpsons) and play Civilization on his computer. He wanted to give me a little peaceful time. That was nice of him. Thank you, Cameron. Thank you very much.

The sky is nice and blue; the sun is shining on the shrubs to the north turning them to a lively green, instead of a brooding shade. I don’t know the temperature; it is cool, but not too cool. I have not looked at the forecast; I am savoring these minutes.

I could do a lot of yard stuff today, but I really, really don’t want to. But maybe I will have to. Well, that decision will come – one way or another.

The police have put two speed read-out signs up by the intersection to U.S. 6, the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. The speed limit there is 30 and I always get a read-out of 33 or 34 mph. That’s not right – once I got a 29. Those signs bring out the rebel in me. Once I slowed down so much (when there was absolutely no traffic around) that the sign didn’t register me. I wonder if it had a funny feeling run through its electronics? Sorry, little sign, I know someone put you there and you are just doing your job.

I have some pictures from the last couple of days – the evening at Mother’s and yesterday’s trip to Kingman.

Oh, wait, I forgot. This is Cameron’s waffle stack.

And this is the little white cat at Mother’s; I don’t know if she has a name – maybe this is the cat Mother calls Little One.

Mother and Tiffany down for an afternoon read. I personally have my doubts about this cat. She managed to weasel her way into the house just after Tippy’s suspicious death.

Part of the yard in early evening.

The road in front of the house I’ve known forever. They brought my mother and me home from the hospital in an ambulance the first time I traveled on it.

Out back; I think I’m standing on the mound

.

Ah, yes, Amish country.

Round barn in the distance.

My grandparents and father are buried here.

I wish I had been in video mode when I turned this way, looking at the trees giving way to the downward slope of the hill to the creek. Birds were singing; my father would have known which ones were which. There was a slight breeze. My throat was getting pretty tight at this point.

Still, there is always something kooky when I do things. When we drove along the road to where we normally pull off into a grassy area, I told my mother we couldn’t do that anymore. When she asked why, I had to say, “Because there is a dead person there.” It was a very fresh grave, no marker yet, just a white wooden cross that had “Grampy” written on it and some mementos left by children.

I was just stretched out on the sofa in a little nap adventure when I decided to reach over and grab something on the coffee table. I didn’t fall off but my center of gravity shifted enough that I was tilted on the edge in a precarious balance. Now, instead of scooting back over, I thought I’m too lazy to move and I’ll just experiment with lying here. So I did and, you know what, I did not slip or slowly lean farther into a pre-falling position. It was as if I had velcro holding me right in place.

So then I start thinking about mountain climbers who rig hammocks and maybe a little tent-like wind protection on the sheer wall of the mountain, cliff, whatever you want to call it. “Place for potential falling” would be my name for it if I were an Indian and inclined to name things by description.

I imagined hanging in my hammock on a mountain – they do come with hammock belts, don’t they? – and snuggling down in my downy sleeping bag. I would just pretend I were not hanging from a mountain. That plan has flaws down the road, such as, well, getting down – or up if I were still summit-bound.

I would not have any idea of going higher, because the only way I would be in that position were if some crazy guy read a crazy kidnap & hang someone on a mountain plot script and grabbed an old lady – me – and put me there. The odds of that are long. That’s good; I’ve had enough adventure for the day already – teetering on the sofa as I did.