I took a spectacular tumble this morning, launching ice, sandwich and myself into the air while walking on the porch. The ice and sandwich impacted and ricocheted; I just impacted, with the brunt on my knee. This is the paragraph with which I am starting “Take Two.”

The “Take One” post started with the following;

I’m 67, political incorrectness can fall out of my mouth as easily as the crumbs from a powdered sugar doughnut. Added to my age is my tendency to pun, joke, all right – outright mock. Not that the the above that are meant to be derogatory, but the word play has an irresistible humor, sort of.

I certainly see no humor in the spate of terrorist attacks, but I still tumble into the pitfall of letting anything set me off-balance concerning straight-faced, somber subjects.

Then I went on to relate various possible terrorist scenarios regarding my fall that popped into my head. Well, rats, I suppose it would have been okay for someone right there, listening at the moment, to hear it; but in writing it does seem not a little over the top, but somewhat under the bottom.

So, I am not including it. Do you know how hard that is for a person who used to write a series of stories about a really odd and crazy family called The Wickhams for a newspaper? Delete my words, Oh, horrors. However, I must say this is not in the same category as boys playing ball with the spongy jell-o salad Aunt Opal made for every family reunion. So, when it comes to ending the post, I’m taking a knee. No, I’m not; I hurt it. Hmmmm:

I guess what is usually said now is: Ya shoulda been there.

Everyone knows that Foo likes to keep things upbeat at her bar and so, with holiday season coming on, she has been screening Christmas songs – trying them out on the regulars. It hasn’t been working out too well. She included two versions of “I’ll be Home for Christmas”: Bing Crosby and The Irish Tenors, but not consecutively. She started off with Bing and some people were feeling a little nostalgic for those who wouldn’t be making it home in person; then she moved on to “The Littlest Angel”, again by Crosby.

Not a good idea; read the lyrics.

Let me tell you a tale that is often told
In the great Celestial Hall
All about an angel only four years old
The littlest angel of all

How all day he would play with a little box
That to others had no words
Oh, but there were treasures in this little box
The treasures he brought from Earth

Just a butterfly with golden wings
A little piece of a hollow log
Two shiny stones from a river bank
And the worn out strap of his faithful dog

Then the angels all heard that the holy child
Would be born in Bethlehem
And they all brought present for the holy child
And each gift was a heavenly gem

Then the littlest angel put his little box
With the presents fine and wrapped
And the littlest angel sat alone and cried
For his gift was so meager and sad

Just a butterfly with golden wings
A little piece of a hollow log
Two shiny stones from a river bank
And the worn out strap of his faithful dog

But the Lord chose the gift of the little box
That the child had blessed with love
And it started glowing that very night
It became the star up above

When you see that star as it shines on high
In the great Celestial Hall
You will know the proudest angel in the sky
Is the littlest angel of all

With his butterfly with golden wings
A little piece of a hollow log
Two shiny stones from a river bank
And the worn out strap of his faithful dog

(We got these lyrics and songlyrics.com, and if you really want the full impact, you can find it on YouTube.

Then “Fairytale of New York” came up, followed by the same Irish Tenors reprising “I’ll be Home for Christmas.”

People were sobbing, the kind of sobbing that involves snorts and gasps lots of nose blowing. Yes, it was a new kind of festive. Of course, after all those tears, a lot of stress was released and I suppose some of the patrons felt better, but, gee, I don’t think that is exactly a Deck the Halls type of gaiety.

She’ll be reworking the list, maybe going more Rudolph and Frosty and, of course, this upbeat tune:

Finally, tugging with all my might, I got a 20-footlong tarp filled with leaves out to the driveway/curb. It did not contain the last leaf, nor even the 1,000th from last leaf, but after numerous efforts, I would say the yard is relatively raked. I honestly think one could count the number of leaves left; it might be a high number but it could be done.

I thought to myself: Now is the last time I will have to rake these leaves at 310 N. Riley? Is this the end of an era? I did not feel the least bit sentimental. 310 N. Riley vs. the Amazing AmeliaJake LeafRaker – I don’t think I won once, but I fought the good fight. At least I tell myself that.

I could post a picture of the tree that had golden leaves a couple of weeks ago, but the sticks it is now will be around for a long time. No hurry, and maybe I’ll actually post one of it coated in sparkling ice. Oh, joy.

I got to thinking about Christmas lights; I wasn’t going to put any out this year, but I think I will have one last stab at creating the effect of fireflies dancing in the air along the front of the house. You just have to pull down a branch on a bush, hook part of a string on it, let it whoosh back up, do it again and again and again . . . and come night, the randomness of the branches and the wind give it a magical appeal. And after seeing the Acrylic Pink Pig Ballerina, I think that would be a sedately dignified bit of festivity.

There are times when someone starts talking and just keeps going; I know the analogy is often made to a dam bursting. Sometimes the dam holds. I don’t think that is the case here. I don’t believe there was any pressure on my “dam” and I don’t think the “water” level was especially low.

There was nothing dramatic; I just took a natural break because I didn’t feel like saying anything. Actually, I didn’t deliberately take the break; it just happened. Other things happened and I could write about them now, but it’s all everyday this and that, and although that may be what I normally write about, I don’t have any urge to catch up on the ordinary.

I did go to Fairborn; I did go to City Barbeque; we had a power outage with half the apartment; I watched a movie on my ipad; I had to get air in the tires when I drove home and, oh, I need to replace a headlight. That wasn’t catching up – that was listing. Anyone who knows the slightest thing about AmeliaJake knows that catching up is a drawn-out story with asides and outright digression and, possibly, elaboration. Just so we are clear.

This leaves me with no real content, and, as I have said before, that has not stopped me from typing. Drivel is often therapeutic for the writer – blasted boring for the reader, though, I’ll give you that.

Oh, I do have one topic that has brought a chuckle from me: we went to Home Depot and Meijers and I was curious to look at the seasonal offerings. I would not say I walked into a mystical area of Christmas fantasy and magic, but it sure as Hell was interesting. I took lots of pictures and sent most to LZP and I intend to show them here – later today, after I have moved them from my phone.

Let me pique your curiosity by mentioning the acrylic pink ballerina pig lawn ornament. Yes, even I was taken aback, and I knew the visions of a Dickens’ Christmas were fading fast with the continued increase in the number of generations following mine. I just didn’t how close the shark was to being jumped.

Yesterday was beautiful and driving back was a pleasure; it was a chilly day of warm earth tones – the beige and tan of harvested fields, the stands of woodlots, not yet nothing but sticks, but decorated with the occasional unfallen leave and a brilliant blue sky showing through were foliage used to be. Because of the unseasonably good weather, the GPS still took me on the back roads of flat Northern Ohio – the type of lonely, narrow roads where you can drive right down the middle to put equal pressure on your tires.

It was the type of rural flatness where you really have to look for intersections with even smaller county roads. These roads don’t have fancy suburban names; they usually mark the villages and townships and/or homesteads that link together. I know when I come to Liberty-Union Road, I am getting close to Hwy 30 with its four lanes and median strip. In Ohio, the speed limit on 30 is 70 mph; in Indiana, it drops to 60/65. I am always prepared for this and don’t even bother looking for police cruises – I just slow down. Lots of people pass me pushing 75 plus and I usually then pass them sitting on the shoulder with lights flashing behind them. It helps to be in the know, especially now that some of the troopers have cars That blend right in and little road twists and hillocks that make for surprise sightings.

I am now going to relax with a foldover and a drink and then return to my night’s sleep. I really wouldn’t have to; I fell asleep early in the evening and feel quite rested, but down pillows and comforters are as inviting as an epic poetic siren. I wonder if it is a coincidence that “home” makes up the most of Homer.

I really wasted today, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t just vegetate, but there was a pattern of letting chores push me – and I was pretty selective about which chores I pushed back. Most of them just rolled over me like a tsunami.

I did some reading, but it was a novel and I’ve read so many well-written novels that I doubt it added too much to my language ability or understanding of any relationship. I may have learned a few things about silk that I didn’t know, but I didn’t retain the exact knowledge. What happened is that if I want to talk about silk, I have an overall idea of what I have to study up on it.

On top of everything else with this reading thing, I wasn’t pleased with the decisions the protagonist made; I found myself growing irritable and entertaining this underlying thought: “Are you crazy? Are you really that incredibly crazy?” Oh, well, I don’t suppose I have room to talk.

At evening came on, I scanned through the news page and read the article about George H. W. Bush’s new book, or rather one based on interviews with him. It was refreshing. But, then, drat it all, I clicked on a video by Dr. Gupta on following an Alzheimer patient who had been an assistant professor of dentistry at Harvard. It turned out to be a series of short videos. You know what? I’ve had times when my train of thought just went right out of my mind, leaving not a trace. That was enough to start a hypochondriac panic attack, which I kept at bay until I woke up after dozing off. Don’t Alzheimer patients doze off? ACK!!!!!

So how many numbers can I remember in row? What was the name of the guy who wrote such and such poem, and, for Heaven’s Sake, what was the title of the poem. So what am I remembering? One line? What was my phone number in West Chester? Panic time.

But I have a busy day tomorrow, catching up on what I let slide today and making time to worry about remembering what I’m to do. I can’t lie awake worrying now. I’m a mess, a sleepless mess and I’m not even in Seattle where I could feel sophisticated and go out an watch the ferries on Puget Sound.

Ok, I’m going to try and get a grip and close my eyes, although that gripping effort may hinder the eyelid relaxing endeavor.

I knew it, knew that I could download the Hard New York Times Sudoku and print it out, but I hadn’t done it. Then, yesterday, I did. Today I printed off another one . . . and now I have to wait until tomorrow to get another one. Gee, addictions can be real bummers.

Needing some sort of a lift, I went outside and raked more leaves. I raked them onto a tarp and pulled them to the street. I have this technique: I pull the tarp mid-way into the street and then double it back on itself so the leaves pile up on the curb/driveway. Well, during one tarping, a car – and this was almost at dusk – came up the street without running lights on, so I was at the point where I was going to double back when I saw it. Rats! I had to pull it farther and when I doubled back, the leaves dumped into the middle of the street. So I madly raked them over to the curb, trying to act nonchalant.

Then I pushed some more piles over and for my finale, rolled out the trash barrels. It was warm here today and I was covered in a sheen of sweat and infused with endorphins. I think my glasses are all smudged, though. That’s saying something for me; I have worn glasses forever and consider anyone who can’t look through Crisco a wimp.

Oh, I had on a denim skirt and didn’t feel like changing so I raked in it; I’m just so sophisticated. I’ll bet that sheen of sweat was mostly Perrier water.