Whoa! I just emailed someone that it is 57 outside, but re-checking, I see that it is 55.  Of course, it is just eight in the morning.  And, of course, the grass still needs mowing AGAIN. However, I am happy for this respite and anticipating being hugged by the coolness when I go out to walk.

Yes, I know, come winter I’ll be longing for the warmth of 55.

Today I tossed a couple of freshly-washed blankets over a fence and the clubhouse climbing set; and, now, dry, they smell so very good – almost like taking a bit of a sunlit day to bed with you. I think a decreasing number of people are aware of this smell, since, more than the advent of dryers,  the spouting of infamous and ubiquitous Homeowners Bylaws.

Where did it start? In subdivisions after WWII? I think that was you had to hang your wash on a certain day . . . and from that came the “no clothes line for you” attitude of the up and coming. Jeez Louise.

But, anyway, tonight there will be old-fashioned “stuff your face in the comforter and sniff” activity going on here.

This morning when I headed out on my morning walk, I had the sidewalk all to myself all the way down to the high school and then as I was heading over toward the lake, I saw movement off to my side. It was a young female jogger passing me, her ponytail swaying with her movement. Well, okay, I can remember back those decades and jogging at Wright-Patterson AFB on base housing. We were all young in that neighborhood and I remember pushing, pushing, pushing and gasping at the finish on Apricot Court in front of a duplex designed to reflect a Tudor influence.

I didn’t think too much about it – the time passing, that is. I concentrated on the upward grade and then the jog (figure of speech) over to Park Avenue.

Then I looked ahead and saw two people coming my way, a woman and a older gentleman . . . with a walker.  I wondered if  he was remembering when he had a steady stride. We passed and I smiled and I think he did too.

And then I saw a young, redheaded postman headed toward me . . . and he just scowled all the time.  Maybe he saw my ipod earphones and thought computer and email and postal cutbacks.

Not long after I reached the house, sweaty, but invigorated and made myself some lemonade.  I can’t think of a finalizing little thought on the experience with which to end . . . and so I guess this is all she wrote.

So far, this day shows definite signs of frittering. I mowed last evening; I slept all nice and comfy. And the morning is blue sky and sunny and not too hot . . . Why, it’s a Goldilocks day. Seeing the word “frittering” in print in front of my face made me think of corn fritters, which led me to corn muffins, which led me to John Wayne’s  answer to Katherine Hepburn in Rooster Cogburn.

Why are you shooting corn muffins in a meadow while my father’s killer is on the loose?

We’re celebrating, Sister.

Celebrating what?

Being alive, Sister, being alive.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I went to bed expecting to get up, walk, mow my little lawn (if I remember how), go to the LaGrange house and then down to Albion, while leaving something here for people to munch on. But I got up and it was lightly raining . . . and 65 degrees. I darn near felt chilled. Yessiree, Bob.

So . . .  looks like  trips to LaGrange and Albion . . . and, oh, for heaven’s sake, some picking up around the house. I could take a short walk, but my shoes are brand-new and another day of muscle rest sounds okay to me. And that mowing thing . . . well, let the tortured grass of 2012 enjoy its green victory. Yes, I like that idea.

We have a Number 16 birthday coming up in just a few days and Der Bingle ordered her gift and it is coming addressed to her – to intercept the mail or not? Why is it coming early? Well, he asked me about the birthday and a gift and suggested something and I said I’d ask her mother. I did and she said she thought Miss 16 would like it, so I told Der Bingle and in no time at all it was ordered. Kind of reminds me of when her brother needed an electronic gizmo and the same grandpa drove to Columbus, Ohio to pick it up  and then turned around and got here at Kendallville late that same day. Do you suppose these kids have any idea how lucky they are?

Then again, did I have any idea how lucky I was when I was 16? Not a clue. My cousin Lana wrote me a note when Mother died and said: You were so lucky to have two parents who loved you so much. Oh, gosh, a little rain outside and now a little facial rain inside. Well, comfort for the soul, perhaps.

I went to the store and bought myself a pair of walking shoes, ones with comfy, cushioned heels. Then I came home and decided a nap would feel so good, so I took one. Then I stretched, got a drink, started to read but felt myself dozing off . . . and went with it. And now I’m going to settle down for a long winter’s night in the middle of summer.

This afternoon I wanted to go visit Kathryn at the nursing home and I wanted to be clean, so I showered and shampooed. Then I brushed my hair and decided my roots needed to dry upright . . . so I scooped up most of my hair into a topknot and stuck a hat on my head – my dear, beloved Dorfman Pacific hat with the mesh crown and the neck strap.

Sometime at the the nursing home, I took my hat off, forgetting about my hair sticking out at odd angles and spouting on top. I did not realize this until much later, after many trips to the nurses’ station and talking with people who came in the room.

I notice I’ve been doing this frequently. I don’t know what the staff calls me there, and I guess it’s more comfortable for my self confidence that way.

I know where I have been; I just didn’t realize how things blended together, as did days. This has been a week of trips to Fort Wayne, hours spent at the LaGrange house as the new green metal roof goes on, extra time at the
nursing home because Mrs. Feller’s daughter’s been sick . . . and because I like sitting there with Kathryn and Clara . . . and one dastardly day of eight or so hours of catching up (a little bit) on housework. I just don’t like that activity and am stressing rules, i.e. You get something out; you put it away.

So, no, I’m not gone; I’m here . . . for what it is worth.

Just a bit of evening light is coming through the windows and individual lamps make pools of cozy light here and there. A lot of us have our butts on one chair and our feet on another – that is, we each have our own two chairs. Glenn Miller is on the music player and right now we’re listening to Glenn Miller and “There’ll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover” and it’s relaxing.

We’re thinking of the cemetery in Kingman, Indiana because we found a three-week lost letter today from Phyllis about how the flower on my dad’s grave is flourishing. When I say Phyllis, I sort of mean Phyllis and Duane – Duane being my oldest cousin on Daddy’s side. I can remember their wedding when I was pretty young; it’s always been Phyllis and Duane. Duane was the star figure in one on my dad’s bedtime stories; I can remember lying in bed in Bloomington, Indiana and choosing “The Night Duane broke his arm” often. It was a basketball game – a 1950’s Indiana basketball game.

I asked Duane and Phyllis to be The Robert Grismore Geranium Watering Brigade since they live down the road a bit. Phyllis was worried when they left to visit their son Tim, but when she got back there were 17 blooms on it.

Thank you, Phyllis & Duane, from Mother and me, and, of course, the man who rests there.

It has been a long day and my head aches. I came home, shucked my clothes,looked at my email and saw that there was an update on a CarePage. The patient is a little boy and he is all right. Someone fed his dog, Buster, rat poison and he died nine days later. He was a Golden Labrador who was not quite two.