I have to admit the thought of staring at the worm picture whenever I came to this blog was off-putting. So when I hopped over to Turner Classic Movies Schedule, and saw The Grapes of Wrath and Casablanca listed for this evening, I jumped at the idea of posting the color picture here:

(Oh, by the way, I did notice the “hopped” progressing to “jumped” in the above sentence, but just sighed.)

Now, getting back to TCM, you can go the the schedule site and see everything all lined up. In addition, you can clicke on a movie you might want to see and TCM will send you an email reminder. This is nice if you scroll into the next few days and find a classic you have wanted to re-visit. I always think, Oh, I’ll remember that . . . and then I never do.

Well, let’s hope Henry Fonda and Humphrey Bogart moved the worms down. I mean, Here’s looking at you, Worm just doesn’t have the nostalgic romance of that rain-swept runway in Africa.

It used to be, on days when the weather was uncertain, that it was fascinating to watch Weather in Motion on The Weather Channel website. I noticed that once things started to “move” on the site, videos began showing up of weather events that were occurring or had just occurred.

Then the video parameters enlarged – at least that’s the way I see it. I considered some of the topics to be only peripherally relating to wind, rain, sleet, snow, etc. For the past two of three days, I have checked the weather and found this picture staring back at me:

It’s about vacations and hotel pools, and I’m guessing you could start to wonder about any concrete pool – if you tended to be a worrywart. I don’t know but it’s possible the picture of the worms (parasites – think Monsters Inside Me) could make swimming with sharks seem less foolhardy.

I know it is May, but with this spring weather, it does not feel like May. There are finally leaves on the trees, but they came out almost in defiance of the cool weather. And now I look at the calendar and realize that Memorial Day is one week from tomorrow.

ONE WEEK!!!!!

ZOUNDS! It is geranium time for AmeliaJake, along with some trailing ivy and asparagus fern. And potting soil, leaving me with hands that will take some time to actually scrub clean. That’s not the half of it: I do NOT yet have said plants, which means I am going to have to go get them. Then pot and deliver them. And all of this in the next few days.

Some years ago I nearly melted getting pots to graves, but it had been a warm spring. This year, with only a few warm days in which I discovered my AC had been hooked up incorrectly, I am going to be – shall we say, irritated – if find the temperatures at 90+ degrees for cemetery trips.

It probably sounds disrespectful, but I find myself wishing Amazon.com with Prime shipping were in a position to help me out.

Der Bingle works at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base and the window overlooks the landing area by the Air Force Museum. He saw the Memphis Belle come to the museum, as well as the P-51’s. I asked him if he felt transported back in time, but since WWII is before even our time, I think he identified more with watching a documentary on a very large screen.

After I had thought about the Memphis Belle for awhile, my mind switched over to a man I interviewed in Ohio who had flown P-51’s in WWII and the article I wrote:

Diane Sawyer of CBS News once said that because of all the people who’d told her stories about where they were on Pearl Harbor Day, she sometimes felt that she too could remember that day — even though she hadn’t even been born by December 7, 1941.
Lately, my thoughts have been turning to German POW camps in the spring of 1945. I’ve read a lot about the war and seen film footage, but it was only this year that I talked face to face with a man who had been held captive after being shot down on a strafing run in his P-51.

This year, for the first time, I realize I have a feeling for, rather than just a knowledge of, the shock of captivity and the relief of being freed. A few months ago, West Chester resident Bill Randolph sat not more than three feet from me and spoke of his experience 48 years ago in Germany.

Right up until the moment he bailed out, being a POW was something his mind would not let him consider.

“I’d either survive or I’d be killed. I never once thought I’d be shot down over enemy territory. The army took pictures of all the airmen to distribute to the French Underground so they could recognize us. And when they took that picture, I wouldn’t let myself think about it.”

But it did happen; and Bill Randolph survived that which he had feared most. He says he thought he was in shock; he thinks he kept himself in that state “so if something were to happen, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Maybe so, then maybe young Lt. Randolph was just discovering a side of himself he did not know existed.

He was interrogated for five days in Frankfurt by a Luftwaffe officer — one who had a book of information on him as well as copies of what was on the squadron bulletin board back in England.

When that was over, he was shipped to a camp. “This was a living hell,” Lt. Randolph states so matter-of-factly that there is no room for doubt.
The prisoners were sent to camp in boxcars. On the way, Americans fliers, unaware of the cargo, strafed the train. The memory of those minutes is clear in the Lt. Randolph’s mind.

“There were three waves of them, and by the time the third wave came along I was down on the floor trying to dig into the fibers and saying prayers. Because of this experience, I felt like I had gotten closer to God…it was a spiritual thing.
It was there in that boxcar that I felt like that. I was allowed to go to the edge of disaster and brought back to live my life. I think because of that I’m more tolerant…that I know something I didn’t know before.”

As the Allies drew nearer, the prisoners were moved farther from the front lines. It was a “terrible” eight-day march. The new camp was near Munich, about 20 miles from Dauchau.

“You spent most of the time not thinking about anything. When you did think it was about food; no romance, all you thought about was food. I wanted a big chocolate sundae.”

Then Patton came.

“As far as I’m concerned , Patton won the war. He came in the camp and he was about 8 feet from me. We didn’t make eye contact, but I could see his eyes. He was saying, ‘Men, I’m proud of you.’ And he was saying anything he could to make us feel good and he had kind eyes. He was gentle: he was a good man. I was very impressed with him; he could lead me anywhere.”

After talking with Bill Randolph, I think I can almost remember it. Somehow he passed on to me a piece of experience..Now when I think of General Patton, I no longer see George C. Scott in front of a flag; I think of a man with kind eyes telling hungry, worn out soldiers that he was proud of them.
The past was in the air that day we talked; and I breathed it in.

**And a little post about the response to that article can be seen HERE.

I have been complaining about the off and on rain we have been experiencing that precludes mowing. Well, today is clear so that old adage “be careful what you wish for” is poking me. It is going to poke me right outside to the mower and the tank of anti-weed stuff, and gee, maybe those rainy days weren’t so bad after all.

The grass – and that would be a minority occupant of my yard – is tall. The weeds are hardy and that blasted dandelion that survived round one of chemical warfare is reaching tall and strong toward the sky.

This is not a time to flag nor fail ( I mentioned yesterday I had watched Darkest Hour again) and so I have no choice but to get at it. I think I shall use my hand to form a “V” and then a “W” – Victory over Weeds.

UPDATE: Look at bottom for continuing horror.

Fortunately, I watched Darkest Hour again last night so I am braced for the struggle. Over the weekend, I went out and did a little experimental spraying to see how effective my weedkiller would be. The place that really needs it is right outside the back vestibule door where the vestigial remains of a stack of firewood litter the ground. This is a spot where we would put  a few logs for easy grabbing and where there is now bark and mud and yuck. Here there be weeds.

There was one particularly obnoxious dandelion that was huge and waving its stems around and I really let it have it with the deadly spray. Oh, how naive I was. I expected it to lie down like a run-over octopus, and it did for a day.

And, then, I got out of the car and looked over to see it was doing a good impression of a horror movie plant.

Just look at it! Gosh, it’s aggravating.

Enlarge the picture at your own peril; it’s possible it could reach out of the monitor and eat your face. I am debating whether or not to apply a more potent herbicide or dig it up and fill the hole with bleach.

UPDATE:

Just look at how it is growing sturdier and more menacing with its seed pod puffballs. I may have to take a croquet mallet to it.

Yesterday it was gloomy and wet outside for a good part of the day and then it dried out, with rain predicted again for the night and the next day and maybe the day after that. Although a young man had mowed the grass last week, it had spouted up and I knew there were some areas that were vulnerable to having hostas and myrtle mowed because of their closeness to grass.

So, when late afternoon came and the area was dry, I got out the electric mower and a couple of cords and had at it. At first, there was a sense of Here we go again, another year of mowing that had started when I was twelve. Then it started to feel not bad, and progressed to good as my hair became wet with perspiration and my Netflixed muscles got a wake-up call.

Exercise in a gym may be good psychological boost to morale, but exercise from doing work outside can be really uplifting. You are getting something done, and you feel less guilty enjoying 21st century America when you know your ancestors got here by fighting seasickness on sailing ships and then got to the Midwest by walking out behind oxen.

We have so much and we take it for granted. It’s good to be reminded how refreshing a plain glass of water can be.

Ack, ack, and double ack.

A few years ago I lost enough weight for people to notice, for me to feel better and, and as a result, I looked a bit more like my mother, who was very good looking. I kept the weight off for more than a little while and then in the past months, I have put it all back on.

So I have to do it ALL OVER AGAIN – or eat myself into a ball with my head and limbs being little nubs. Even as a “near ball”, which might or might not be akin to near beer, I couldn’t be a first class roller. My little nubs would keep me on an erratic course.

Believe me, I am not thrilled about this. It puts me in the position of 1) just doing a Nancy Reagan “Just say NO” or 2) manipulating my mind into little motivational tricks to keep my mouth closed.

Perhaps this is punishment for watching “600 lb. Life” and criticizing enablers only to enable myself to scarf down pinwheel sandwiches and cheese balls with cheddar pretzels. I have this great talent for knowing when the pinwheel sandwiches are going to be marked at half price . . . and I have paid the price.

It’s not like this happened overnight; I saw the trend and thought Oh, I’ll get this in line. Well, that was a big, fat lie to myself. Gee, look how easily the adjective fat pops up in my expressions.

This is sort of like taking a semester length course and then reading all the material the night before the final. Oh, you tell yourself if fate will let you get a “B” at least, you will always keep up with coursework. And you turn around and do it over and over again. It is a big, fat character flaw. And I am on my way to becoming a Fatty McFatFat.

When I had my new furnace installed in October, we were still having warm days, but the evenings were quite cool and the temperature inside my brick house stayed fairly consistent. I had set the touch screen thermostat on Heating Mode with an upper cut-off and it worked well.

Then we had a some very warm days a couple of weeks ago and when I walked through the dining room, I saw the temperature inside was 77 degrees; I thought I was getting a bit warm and the room seemed close. I’ve written about the segment where we found out the Cooling Mode was connected incorrectly and so no matter what amount of fiddling I did with the thermostat, the outside unit would not come on. It was fixed, for free, and I decided to go to the Auto Mode. And, I need remedial thermostat training.

Actually, I don’t think I ever understood the ins and outs of this thermostat; there had not been a quiz. It appears there are periods of the day and you set what temperature you want during those time periods. I tried it and, frankly, it got fairly cold one night.

I started fooling around with the thermostat again – and “fooling around” is the most accurate way to describe what I was doing – and made things worse. It seems you can add as many periods as you want, and name them if you so desire. (Awake, Sleep, Away, Home, Work, etc.) Finally, I found out it was possible to delete periods as well. This was fortunate because somehow I had filled up the thermostat window with lots of periods, each wanting to have a temperature designated.

What I want to do is set temperature that triggers the heating mode and, if necessary, the cooling mode. I may have to consult YouTube. It will probably work out, assuming I do not let my AmeliaJake-ness take over and make a bunch of time periods that I can name, such as George, LaTisha, Harvey, Annabelle, Jack. I know that’s not right, but it is so tempting.

It is good news. Last year when the new thermostat for the new furnace was installed, one wire was inadvertently attached at the wrong place and so the outside unit did not receive a message which said: START UP, THEY ARE ROASTING IN HERE. There was no cost. Woo Hoo. And, because the spring continued to be cool – the day the AC man came the high might have been 50 degrees – we actually did not roast.

Memorial Day is not far off; imagine that. It has been an odd year in relation to seasons. If this were the real, the authentic, the rocking chair on the porch old days, I would be one of the old-timers remarking about days when we used to melt in our band uniforms while marching on Memorial Day.

I am still an old-timer – just writing on a blog – and not counting the days until I can wear white shoes. Such rules. My goodness. Oh, by the way, I still often call the refrigerator “the icebox.”