February – to someone my age, it is Lincoln’s Birthday and Washington’s birthday, as opposed to President’s Day, and shoeboxes fashioned into construction paper-covered Valentine receptacles.

C. S. Lewis in Shadowlands referred to it as “a trying time of the year.  The leaves not yet out, mud everywhere you go.  Frosty mornings gone.  Sunny mornings not yet come.  Give me blizzards and frozen pipes, but not this nothing time, not this waiting room of the world.” I think we’re a month of so behind Lewis’ English weather here in Northern Indiana – the mud abounding  and leaves not out seems more like March to me. And we have blizzards in March, though we know the snow melt will come fairly quickly. March can still be very much winter.

Still, I do notice that you cannot ignore the change in the intensity of the sunlight as February approaches March, so, yes, March is a beginning of spring. However, while it is here,  February is that month when the holidays are tucked away and we can rest and wait. And, hey, I realize that ain’t bad. In fact, now that it is March with taxes looming and outdoor work right around the corner, I find that I’m not so sure about leaving my February hermitage behind. February might very well be procrastinators’ heaven.

Now it is over. Time to rev up. I have noticed, however, that people accept this revving up notion at different times.  Some times I am the early revver, getting annoyed by the slugs around me, but more often I am the slug who feels the nudges of the dastardly early revvers and snarl that I need a minute. That is a big, fat lie; I meed likes days or weeks, but I try to buy time with my “minute” cliche.

There are so many papers among my parents things; some have been passed from my right hand to left hand and back like soldiers digging holes and refilling them. Today, while going through stuff again, I noticed quite a few newspaper clippings in one envelope, which contained old, old scraps not needed for these present times. You know, when you’re rummaging through things, thinking, “Okay, Mother, where’s the manual for the gas heater?” . . .  Well, stopping to browse isn’t going to warm your tootsies.

But, today I stopped. Among the yellowed obituaries, I think this is the oldest one:

He was my great-great grandfather. Oh, and there’s a typo – it should be Briar Creek. His wife was born in Vermont, moved to New York and then came out to Indiana. She walked . . . I’m a wimp; I complain when the gate we’re leaving from is at the end of the terminal – no matter that I’m going to be halfway across the country in less than four hours.

Oh . . . the redheads at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse say they have a program that will toughen me up.

A nice person-Brandi – was better than a shot of Brandy today. Sprint’s tower upgrade is going to continue until – wait for it- some time in March. That is the official line Sprint is having its employees relay to customers. Oh, woe is me, BUT Brandi helped me adjust my phone settings so that  I can maximize my signal and use my wifi and a free app – MagicJake – to get me through this month.

What sent me  into the store to complain again was an event worse than a dropped call. I was using my son’s more powerful phone to leave a message wit h a doctor. The recording asked if I wanted to review my message and, although it is out of character, I did.  Every other word was dropped. That could have been a fine kettle of fish.

Last week my phone started dropping calls and/or people could not hear me. I went into the Sprint Store and they told me the towers were being upgraded. I said, “Okay.” Well, a better response might be, “Oh Crap.” Yes, my phone, or phonie, as I am wont to call it because I am some sort of nutcase, is still giving me fits.

I looked this issue up on the Internet and guess what? Yes, there are many, many stories about people experiencing this problem and being given The Towers answer. And the stories talk about loooooong time periods of tower upgrade.  I am getting a little worried here.

Obviously, there will be updates – not to be confused with There Will be Blood  . . . quite yet.

The book I just finished was good reading until the end; in other words, in my opinion, the author wrote well, but wanted to have A BIG PICTURE plot as well.   In the last short chapters, everything was neatly wrapped up – or buried, as it were – think  four old ladies who pushed an equally old man down a hidden tunnel, for starters. And then there was the character who explained everything by referring to information unearthed by a private detective in the 50 year interim between the first 98% of the book and the last 2%.

I think I’m going to look at the TV guide; I feel like a movie tonight. Yes, I know. Netflix. Actually, I have got my sleeping hours off-kilter and need to stay up until 11 pm in an attempt to get straightened out. I’d better watch while sitting up; you know, make the old college try at it.

OSCARS?? I didn’t know the Oscars were on.I haven’t watched the Oscars in years, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

I’d better write this right now, before I get caught up in some Saturday morning to-do. While checking my email, I saw that on one of my rare forays into Facebook, I had sent a friend request to Kathy Young, who is a very, very nice lady here in Kendallville.  She had sent me an acceptance notification and I popped over to her Timeline and found she likes  “Backroads Girl”. At first I thought it was a book and clicked over to investigate. It turns out it is a Facebook page.

I scanned down the page and found a poem. I’m not a physical risk-taker, but it reminded me of some moments in my still undignified, past 60 life.  The first one that popped into mind was Socmonkeyjawea and the firepit dancing, but we can gloss over that.

Here is the poem, as cited on Backroads Girl. It is by Mary Oliver.

Don’t you dare climb that tree
or even try, they said, or you will be
sent away to the hospital of the
very foolish, if not the other one.
And I suppose, considering my age,
it was fair advice.

But the tree is a sister to me,
she lives alone in a green cottage
high in the air and I know what
would happen, she’d clap her green hands,
she’d shake her green hair,
she’d welcome me. Truly

I try to be good but sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to be. It’s impossible not
to remember wild and want it back. So

if someday you can’t find me you might
look into that tree or – of course
it’s possible – under it.

– Mary Oliver

Shane and I are here, holding down the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and keeping a light on in the window. Shane has made a couple of trips to check and see if Quentin has reconstituted himself from the scents he left behind on pillows and blankets; he comes back then and lies down with his head between his paws and looks up at me with soulful eyes. Of course, he might be milking it a little for extra treats . . . can you say “cheese”? . . . Uh, you know, AmeliaJake, it might cheer me up just a bit.

While Quentin was here, he wore his grandpa’s old super warm jacket and, yes, the sock monkey hat. Said hat is now in the backseat of Der Bingle’s car; Q doesn’t need it – when he landed in Houston, it was 70 degrees. Maybe we should have someone crochet him a light-weight sock monkey hat – or maybe fashion one out of foil threads so it will also repel alien mind controlling rays. Come to think of it, maybe I should add a bit of tinfoil to my hat. Possibly, it is too late, though.

Well, all you little peanut butter eaters out there, I think I am going to run over to the nursing home earlier today and get back before dark since it is COLD and the roads have gunk on them. You do know what I carry in my trunk this time of year, don’t you? Yes, a jar of peanut butter and some crackers, a few bottles of water . . . and, at the moment, a bottle of Blueberry Sparkling Grape Juice. I also have my mother’s Fargo-type hat from Land’s End. I may or may not post a self-portrait later.

Stay tuned because I think enough time has passed that I can relate the Hawaiian Sock Monkey Christmas Ornament story. LZP sent it and now he can sit and wonder how cotton balls are involved.

We have two kinds of wood here. Our woodman each year brings a couple of loads that are seasoned and we have a stash of wood that he has brought from previous years that is more dried out.  I let it dry out because obviously the old wood will get burning faster.  Of course, I realize it burns up faster too and it would be more economical to make kindling out of some of the wood that is delivered each year.

Oh, I really don’t think that will happen – AJ with an axe? And don’t even think of her grandchildren with axes . . . one especially might make you self-defensively remember Lizzie Borden.

But, anyway, the trick is to keep the older wood accessible, that is to not bury under the new wood. That pretty much means moving wood more than once – sort of like in the army where you dig a hole and then fill it and then dig it again. The rotation pattern can get, if not complex, at least something like following instructions not written by native English speakers. Sigh.

My method has evolved into an exercise program. Instead of taking armloads of wood, I carry one piece at a time, holding it in various positions as I tote it to a new place. And then there is the walking from pile to pile and the bending over. Just slow steady walking back and forth and forth and back.

To tell you the truth, it is enjoyable in the sense that you start to physically feel better and you have plenty of time to think whatever you want to. I mean, how many people do you think get within speaking distance of a wood-toter? Not many. Sometimes we I am hefting a good-sized loglet up, and getting ready to tread my path, I think of my mother and grandmothers and great-grandmothers I did not know and for a moment imagine them saying, “Well, at least she can work a little.”

This is not a bad task for a soon-to-be old woman.

Every morning I get an email from Amazon.com, notifying me of the Kindle Daily Deal.  Today, for the second time in not to many weeks, it is Romance Day – 99 cents. I know I seem to be  judgmental here; I really do understand that many people find relaxation in a well-written romance novel. I am just not one of them. When I see the “romance” category, I groan. I’m sure other folks no doubt feel the same about spy and mystery novels, historical accounts and those non-story novels that just wander around someone’s mind.

Der Bingle and my younger son are fans of sci-fi; they would even go out to a bookstore in San Diego – The Mysterious Galaxy – to book signings. They wait for books to be announced and do the pre-order process. Many is the time Der Bingle has started a conversation with, “Such and such title is out today; I imagine Quentin will be reading it as soon as . . .” Then, later, in a three-way call, I will listen while they talk about it.

I guess it is not the end of the world – these Romance Days; I’ll probably get through the day. I may have to spike my iced tea with sparkling grape juice though.