I know people driving along Riley Street must think, “Auuuggghhhh, look at the buckhorns in that yard. Lazy, trashy people.” Well, like the fellows who stand on curbs with handmade signs announcing fundraising car washes and pork burgers, I need to do the same with my explanation of how I’m trying to get rid of them as opposed to just mowing them now. However, how much of that do you think I could get on a piece of cardboard in print large enough to read from a car? You see my problem.

I almost am tempted to put up a sign that indicates the yard is a Purdue Experimental Project. Well, they have a “body farm” in Tennessee to help forensic people determine how bodies left by criminals or by accident decay and thereby be able to date the death. This is a “Weed Farm”.  I imagine I could make up all sorts of “facts” and “findings” and publish a booklet on what I have “learned”.

I know I could make it all up because, now I’m not saying this is so, but maybe way back when as a senior in high school, someone got fed up with doing research papers and actually concocted legitimate-sounding sources, quotes – including some “sources” that indicated the theory was WRONG. Nice-looking footnotes, carefully checked to show proper order. Do you suppose that might have taken – had it actually been done – far more time and effort than an actual “just knock-it-out” research paper? Hmmm, I wonder if it did, er, would have.

But, never mind.

I guess my sign should say; What do you expect from AmeliaJake?

Before I say anything about maybe killing weeds, I guess I should admit I am in a grumpy mood. I suspected it, but when I inadvertently pressed delete and the whole darn post deleted, I stamped my foot iN total toddler anger – and that was from a sitting position.

Actually, I would say I am beyond grumpy now that I think about it; I believe I indignant and in a snit. Crunched down eyebrows, screwed up mouth . . . and I feel my foot starting to twitch.

But, never mind. For now, let me turn to weedkillers that come in a bottle that attaches to a hose. Of course, there was the manipulation of the hose over the fence, but that was a given. Then, there was making certain of a good fit between the hose and the bottle and that is suspect, but this time did not cause a problem.

We started to spray. Immediately and for the first time all day, within five minutes two people come along with strollers. So we wait. What were they doing, waiting around the corner for us to come out? Okay, they start to spray again and it is going along all right until we can’t figure out if the weedkiller is mixing correctly with the water or not. We stop and I decide to smell the contents of the bottle which I suspect is all water, the poison having come out in the first 30 seconds. However, it smells fairly potent and looks discolored so I poured some directly on a circle around a big weed that looked like a splat on the ground. I did it in another place as well, and in a couple of days, I may walk out and be inspired to write a book about an ecological disaster.

That’s just the half of it, however. I had another bottle of weedkiller by another company and we hooked that up. And sprayed. It may be that the spots where I poured contents of the bottle directly on green stuff my be the healthiest part of the yard.

Then, for the heck of it, I decided to hook up outdoor Windex. It did not forcefully spray a window on the second story; it arced out maybe six feet and dribbled on a window in the garage and most of it ran down my arm. I simply and nonchalantly walked away to think about this. Think a lot because I have a lot of windows.

Which brings me back here and to my snit. I am letting it wash over me like a big wave –

S……N…..I…..T

I am going up to LaGrange County today; I have not been there for quite awhile and it could get interesting. I wouid not not mind taking a mongoose with me, although I suppose, from what I read, a python is more likely than a cobra. I am also taking weed killer instead of a weed-whacker because I am whacked out. I suspect there is an urban dictionary explanation of whacked out, and I would not be surprised if it meant something other than tired of working eradicating weeds. It might, just possibly, relate to being a bit off bubble. I couldn’t really argue with that. Come to think of it, a padded room wouldn’t be too uncomfortable. But I don’t think they let you choose your padding our the thread count in the padding covering. I’m shying away from the crazy aspect until I do a little research on facilities and accessories, such as padded computers and Kindles. Padded cathedral ceilings? Time to stop this paragraph writing an grab a piece of reality.

Ah, fortunately, that PoR (Piece of Reality) was a glass of iced tea. Refreshing. Hmmm, I wonder if anyone put any medication in it? Just kidding . . . because that is the mood I am in today. On the other hand, a bit of alcohol and a lemon perched on the edge might not be too unwelcome. I get the feeling I’m a walking Tennessee Williams play. Well, Sebastian, toodle-loo.

You can find them almost anywhere anymore – those photos labelled “awkward” or “embarrassing” or “what were they thinking?” This morning, on weather.com, I saw another one – this time it was about awkward Fourth of July photos and featured, of course, people in what most would consider sort of crazy clothing with a flag theme.

And what is wrong with this? It’s innocent and maybe some family time together was spent concocting the apparel and then posing for pictures. The intention of those who gather these photos, and practically point with big arrows to the introduction is: Hey, let’s snicker at somebody.

Well, isn’t that just special?

Okay, I will admit that when People of WalMart first came out, I looked and was at times taken aback . . . and thought myself more refined than those pictured. That was wrong, but it was human nature. And the novelty wore off. Especially after I started imagining a site featuring pictures of me.

Actually, I am considering posting AmeliaJake awkward photos, but there are so many to choose from . . .

Even if the fan is not on, it would be awkward to hug it, but I give every ceiling fan in the house a virtual hug when I see it making calm Humphrey Bogart Casablanca circles on above my head. I have no idea if I lived in a previous life or not, but I feel so at home with the soft breeze of the blades above.

Now, apparently, some decorators have given ceiling fans the evil eye. I find that ridiculous when I go through pictures of the candidates for Best House of 2016 in Britain. Minimalist is not accurate enough to capture the essence of the places. One house picture showed a bed, a wall and a straight chair. And the color scheme is mostly black and white. And the people who chose these houses as beautiful are scoffing at Casablanca fans. Well, fie on them.

It is Wednesday and because I have switched trash companies, take out night is Tuesday, instead of Wednesday . . . and in the middle of the night, I remembered this. The trash is out there, if it hasn’t been picked up already and I am so happy that I have/had trash in my driveway. Once upon a time, I probably thought that would be a ridiculous sentence to write. Ah, well: Sic gloria mundi transit.

The electrician was here for two days and found some interesting plugs and connector boxes in various parts of the house. I now have working three-way switches, new plugs, four new ceiling fans, new lights in the kitchen and a bathroom . . . and a couple more little projects once I find the type of light I want. We did temporarily transfer the old kitchen light to a the dark eating nook so that we could see stuff other than gloom while I decide on a new fixture. The one I thought I would like didn’t pan out to be as it appeared on the website.

In other news, I ate two tomatoes yesterday and got “the trots.” I’m okay at this point, but yestday there was a lot of “NOW” urgency. Back in the days of outhouses, all the neighbors knew when someone had the trots. That’s when I learned the phrase; overhearing family members remarking about the man who lived across the road. (It seems when you had the trots, one chose to use the privy rather than the new-fangled indoor facility.)

I did not care much for hostas in previous times, and then I discovered they are very hardy and out of a bunch of dead debris, stick their little heads every spring. For someone with a very black thumb, that is heck of an advantage.

A few years ago I started planting them in areas that were almost always in shade and inclined to be muddy. That first year was a big question mark as Shane took to digging holes around them – in face, I wound up putting a wire fence around the line of them by a north-facing brick wall. But the year after, there they were.

So I planted a few more that got walked on and trampled when we had to take a section of a fence down, but they poked their heads up this spring and starting growing.

When the local grocery offered them for sale again this year, I loaded up my basket. The one above is freshly transplanted. And it blooms.

It has occurred to me that perhaps the plants that show up in front of grocery stores are rejects from nurseries, ones that are judged to have a flaw. The point is, by God, they made it even after rejection and, dontcha know, they seem to be resolute little guys when given a home.

I have purchased some plants from nurseries that believe, but cannot prove, have not thrived because I was not out here holding their little leaves and whispering sweet words.

I was quite concerned about the fern that I had transplanted from Mother’s, but this spring it, too, showed up. And the myrtle that came from homesteads in Fountain County and moved to LaGrange County and now to Noble County is flourishing.

These guys are the type of soldiers General Patton would be proud of.

The people at the dentist office will see me first today – officially, in my capacity as a public persona. They are lucky. It is after five am now and I am a mess, having mowed the lawn and sweat under my hat and then plopped down on my sofa of pain. My hair has been “set” as we used to say in the days of rollers, into a Medusa-look.

My nose is stuffed from pollen. Der Bingle mentioned the yellow stuff down at the Ohio Redoubt and at the Sturgis Cemetery I looked at the flat area on my grandfather’s tombstone and saw it was coated with yellow. Oh, great. Age has made me more allergic. Actually, sitting in a slouch with my computer on my protruding tummy, my head is at an angle to allow my nose to drip, drip, drip. That is not something you wanted to know, but cut me some slack here, okay?

I am one big complaint at this hour; I have a little over two hours to make myself acceptable to go into the dentist office. This is not exactly like having two hours to make yourself presentable to go out and buy a Hummer and head for the Pacific. The enthusiasm seems to be missing. No,it definitely is missing.

Oh, and while I am bracing for the dentist, I need to clean the kitchen lest the electrician be shocked, shocked I saw. I really didn’t mean that to be a pun; I was thinking of Claude Rains in Casablanca.

Then the Internet man is coming, we hope, because the outside connection is flaky. There’s a better word for it, but flaky just falls off my fingers right now.

Yesterday, I went out and sweated and hurried and got everything ready for storms and NOT ONE DROP OF RAIN. I was in a storm mood; I wanted heavy rain. After a bit, I got disgusted and decided my hair was humpy and went and got it cut; it is more in a summer mode now – better suited to humidity and not so vulnerable to taking on the shape of hats, headrests and so forth. I’d take a picture with my little computer camera, but I slept on it wrong, which is pretty hard to do with this cut, but leave it to me. I’ll have a talk with it later and we should be able to come to an understanding.

Because I was going to clean up the house while it rained yesterday, I still have clutter and official dirt inside. Yes, there is a law about cleaning if it is not raining. I’m certain I can cite it. Yes, here it is: AmeliaJake, 2016 – Book of Eccentricity.

Tomorrow will be a two cemetery trip. I’ll probably arise early with my urns and set out shortly after dawn. Oh, did I mention the relay on my low beam headlights is out and probably can’t be fixed until after the holiday. A Recall, dontcha know.

My cousins who put flowers on Daddy’s grave for me also talked about our grandparents who are buried beside him.

Sue and I talked about the porch swing and the bandstand in Kingman yesterday. When we put the flowers on Grandpa and Grandma’s grave yesterday, Sue said we really loved these people. Then we talked about the sweet moments when we would be with them. Frying chicken for us and hot tea and grandma letting us walk to Grandpa’s barbershop and he would drop everything and go buy us ice cream.It was a simple life, but you knew they loved you.

They also took care of my cousin Robert Allen, whose mother, their daughter, was ill. He was once talking with Mother and told her how Grandpa would say at bedtime, “Well, come on little buddy”; he added, “They must have been good people.” There are other stories about Bob – how he would walk around with six-shooters around his little waist and sit on the sofa by launching himself onto it from two feet away, turning in mid-air. And my dad teaching him how to NOT eat peas with his knife . . . and then the moment Daddy was looking elsewhere.

I’d say the Indiana soil is enriched by the Hoosier dust mixed in with it now.