I don’t know – I wrote several posts about Thomas Bickle when he was sick and when he died of a brain tumor. I guess if you type his name into the search function on this page, you will them. I have been thinking about him lately, maybe because it’s Christmas or perhaps because his light on my porch burned out and I’m in the process of getting a new bulb.

One of the topics his mother, Sarah Bickle, wrote about was a reference to Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir called This Does Not Have to be a Secret. It is about a stillbirth in a French hospital and a not quite right translation that ended up as the dwarves of grief. I thought I’d like to re-read it and looked for it among my posts but it wasn’t there. So I looked back at the blog Sarah had for Thomas and found it HERE.

Obviously, writing about Thomas now does not seem like a cheerful Christmas post, but thinking back about what I know of Thomas, I found myself warmed by the amount of love that surrounded that little carrot-top.

Christmas is one week from tomorrow. I am sitting here plotting my way through those days and think we’re going to have a fly by the seat of your pants Christmas. Probably a buffet Christmas dinner like we did last year; that’s not quite accurate. I plan to set the table with nice dishes and a special table cloth . . . and plenty of chairs, but, last year, with Mother recently gone, at the last moment we picked up our plates and milled around, not wanting to see that empty chair I suppose.

And, strangely and unexpectedly, the mood lightened and we were almost merry. I suppose we’ll just go where the moment takes us. And if that worked out so well for Christmas dinner, I’m going to take the same attitude toward this Christmas week; nothing has to be done. No fancy cooking . . . we all pretty much eat what we want all the time anyway, treating ourselves to cheery restaurant settings during the year. Hello Cheesecake Factory . . . Hello The Golden Lamb . . . See you, again, Logan’s Roadhouse.

No harried wrapping of all that stuff. Not that I’m giving that much this year, anyway. I’m probably going to do my patented AmeliaJake Christmas bag approach. Ah, you think that I will put stuff in bagS; no, I use one bag – but a really festive one – and go back and forth into my cache and come out with something for someone in the bag each time. Not that I won’t wrap some special present in my crazy AmeliaJake way – but that might wind up with a gift looking like a cow. Obviously, I’m tired of the old right size of paper, neat folds, matching tags and lovely bows. I’ve don’t that. Do you know for a few years I even cut out small sections of wrapping paper and made the tags and matched them to the pattern of the paper so they would blend in perfectly?

Then for a couple of years I numbered all of the packages with me having the master sheet. No one knew what was what until Grandma checked her key on the couple of sheets on legal paper stuffed in her pocket – which got mislaid a couple of times.

I’ll play Christmas music such as The Irish Tenors before Der Bingle gets home; he doesn’t like them. Maybe I’ll put together a playlist of Tennessee Ernie Ford singing Christmas songs for him. Then, of course, there is that Redneck Album I bought to send LZP but some young family members might take it over. So, we’ll probably open it and play it and I will groan and the kids will put certain songs on constant repeat. Sorry, LZP, you’ll get it in time for next Christmas.

More than likely it will be a Wubba Christmas with Quentin reuniting with Shane for some quality time together – petting, Wubba tug of war, petting, Wubba throwing, petting, Wubba, Wubba, Wubba.  Now that’s the present I have to really remember to get: more Wubbas. Is that screaming I hear from everyone but Shane?

Sydney’s liver enzymes are still up and so we will pamper him and let him have fat-free snacks and try to keep Shane from driving him crazy with . . . well, you know . . .  the WUBBAS.

And here it is, right off the wire:

Your item was processed through and left our NORTH HOUSTON, TX 77315 facility on December 16, 2010. The item is currently in transit to the destination. Information, if available, is updated periodically throughout the day. Please check again later.

The word “item” is the choice of the United States Postal Service and we might keep that quiet from our refugee and her friends – although we do have to admit she is “a piece of work.”

Yesterday I went to Fort Wayne with family passengers in my car . . . and, as you can guess from this post’s title, I heard a thumping on Anthony between State and Crescent. And it wasn’t the rhythmic little sounds you sometimes hear on roads with patches or snow. No, the tire was flat and I pulled into a BP station and thought, “Okay, I am living in the moment; I am not anticipating worse-case scenarios. Well, I did have them on my radar, but I decided one glance at that was enough.

I started shooting air into the tire and much too my amazement (Didn’t I pick up that phrase from some Christmas poem?), the tire stayed inflated. For how long I had no idea, but I gave it a try and we got to Glenbrook Mall and Sears Automotive Center. I went in and mentioned that I had a tire emergency. They took it off and looked at it, thinking maybe it had been a funky kind of rim/tire/cold weather thing. But it was not.

I realized this car was still on its “When Der Bingle was in Georgia” tires and they were all potential problems. So four new Bridgestones. The guy at the store said I would notice a difference in the ride: I guess so. I did have the feeling I was riding on air glued to the highway.

When I got home and the phone rang from Quentin, I told him the story and he said I should have gone to Discount Tire. He’s got my mother’s strength of character and Marine training . . . Say, that combination could be scary . . . and,  by God, he would have pushed that car to Discount Tire while listening to directions from his GPS.

I whimpered that it was cold and I had passengers and I knew where Sears was. I have no true grit. I told him to start up a three way call with his dad, including me in about five minutes after I had settled down with a drink. The call came and Der Bingle asked how things were going here and I said to Quentin, “You tell him.” So, he did – including the part about Discount Tire. And when I mentioned to Der Bingle that I didn’t know where Discount Tire was, he replied, “Well, I think it’s right there on Coldwater.” ** Of course now every time I see one of their signs, my mind will read, “WIMP.” Not accusatory . . . just quietly matter-0f-fact.

Actually, Discount Tire is an okay place. Once when Mother had some car trouble in front of their store, the guys came out and helped. She offered to pay them and they refused, asking her to think of them the next time she needed tires. Yes, my mind’s eye will read “WIMP” but my mind’s ear will hear a soft blending of Quentin’s and Mother’s voices sighing “wimp“.

should have gone to Discount Tire . . . should have gone to Discount Tire . . . should have gone to Discount Tire . . . should have gone to Discount Tire . . .

**HA – Discount Tire i s on the corner of Coliseum and Industrial . . . about 1,000 feet beyond Sears.

We don’t know where our refugee is; there has been no update. She is out there, though, and predicted to arrive tomorrow. She is probably watching Netflix movies as she travels along; who knows what goes on when the box flaps close and the taping begins.

Scooting over to another subject, I am considering taking my cow bag everywhere with me for the next few days because I upended a bottle of perfume in it. I did not know this, of course, until I put my hand in and it became wet and there actually seemed to be mini puddles caught in the bag’s creases. It is a perfume that has the designation  elixir under the fragrance name. Elixir – sounds like a snake oil salesman sold it to me, but really it is so nice smelling and, now, so gone. The cow bag smells good, though.

Gee, this is interesting. I was thinking about the “gone” aspect of incident and looked up the fragrance on the Internet and Amazon. com came up with a price almost three times what it is in the store. Jeez. Do you suppose some sellers are trying to take advantage of men who are just typing in a name that was on a list? Makes me think about checking out the range of prices when I look for something about which I know nothing.

Things went differently than we planned; we just HAD to repack our little friend who is heading off to a new home. Rose and Sophie and some of the rest of us looked at each other once, twice and three times  . . . and we sprung on her. We just couldn’t let her leave without giving her hugs and making her send-off special.

Sooooo . . . . I carefully opened her unit and, let me tell you, it was tough – keeping it all neat and ready to go back together. Then I changed my mind; I threw caution to the wind and announced we were going to TOTALLY relocate her into a new refugee transport. Sophie got red bubble wrap and Rose found some raffia and I got scissors. Stop panicking. I didn’t cut anything vital.

We wrapped up her little pet traveling companion first and tied that knapsack with a bow; we were  going to use bells but feared repercussions in the post 9/11 world. Then I personally tucked in the refugee and stuffed tissue paper around her and placed her security blanket on top.

We closed the box and taped and taped and taped and made her really secure. Then we went to the Post Office and sent her off and got a number by which to track her. Oh, what did I do with it? Drat. Let the search be on.

I thought I sat down and relaxed and wrote a wee bit yesterday; I guess I didn’t. You’d think I surely would have; I mean we had a winter storm and Der Bingle had to drive back to Fairborn. I put lights on the tree and called Summer down to look at them and she decided we should put on some additional ones that have 16 functions. So we have these nice small globe lights that have a cut-glass appearance and then there are the possible seizure strings. I convinced her to do slow twinkling but she could get tricky.

Right now, I am sitting here watching the East Noble 2- Hour Delay announcement that came yesterday afternoon . . . but still no closing. Oh, it could get bad – the tongue lashing Summer will give the corporation. This is the situation: the actual snow stopped last night, but we do have a strong wind and low temperature forecast. Soooo . . . given this is Northern Indiana and what do you expect in winter here?  Perhaps they will stick with the delay . . . and East Noble officials will have wooden sticks in their little “vampire” hearts. Ooooooh, I’m getting nervous.

Guess we’ll have to get all the soda pop into the house instead of in the vestibule, because . . . the low tonight will be ONE degree. That MIGHT be low enough to cool off some hotheads if necessary.

The tree is in the living room in its stand. Which, by the way, is the Krinner Tree Stand – a real find in a now closed store. I couldn’t remember when I purchased it, but I looked on the spotlight function of my computer and found an old email reaching back to  2005:

I have wondered about the hardware store by Scott’s that used to be Coast to Coast and then True Value. Now the clerk says it is independent. I’m curious about why and also noticed they carry some unusual things.
For instance I needed a new Christmas tree stand and researched it on the internet and found the best five.  One was Krinner’s tree stand and I thought neat but they will never have it in Kendallville but I went into this hardware store and wow there it was.
I said to the clerk, “This is so great, you have a Krinner’s tree stand;  you have made my day and he just kind of looked at me. (It might have been the reindeer antlers on my head)

Well, that was quite a tangent – good thing I had a life line on.

In addition to getting the tree up, the shelves are emptied in the fruit cellar and, wait for it, I cleaned The Bunker. Not deep cleaning, mind you, but a darn good start. Soon much of the not-used-everyday stuff in the kitchen will find a new home in the fruit cellar and we will put some of Alison’s extra pantry food down there while she works on her shoppingphillia.

But that makes me think of all the realtors who insist that everything be stored away and out of sight for showing a house – nothing on the counters. So people walk in and go “This is great” and then move in and are standing there with their cooking stuff in hand. And after they put it down on the counters, they thunk their foreheads. Can’t they see this coming? I would ask the realtor, “Okay, show me the super special roomlet or cabinet where I can walk in and find the coffepot, microwave, blender, toaster, etc all lined up ready to be used. You know, come to think of it, were I to design a kitchen I would have a little roomlet attached for all the electronic stuff . . . then I could swoon over empty counters, or maybe sleep on them.

This is where a parallel universe would come in handy. Just go back and forth between the neat one and the one with all the stuff. Of course, there could be a glitch and you’d get stuck in the mind numbing neat one without a thing to read or a blankie to pull up around you.

I’m scaring myself.

Oh, by the way, the Yankee Candle scent for the day was Mistletoe and Fig. Very comforting and Dickensesque.

Okay, we will start the rest stop story and just add to it as the day goes on.

So we were driving down I-75 close to Wapakoneta and it was dark, dark, dark – even with our brights on. I, AmeliaJake, noticed a rest stop was coming up and asked if anyone wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. Quite frankly, I, myself thought better safe than sorry.

As I was going down the entrance lane into the rest stop, I was distracted and when I came to the truck/car fork I was to the left and didn’t know if anyone was right behind me. Besides it was so dark, I couldn’t even make out the letters on the car/truck sign.

Yes, I went to the left and it turned out to be for trucks. I was just going to pull into one of the slots, but someone in the car thought that would be bad, illegal and just totally embarrassing. So I went back to the entrance to the truck area and saw that  you had to go a bit before you came to the fork and could swing around. I would be going against truck traffic so I was going to park.

Then a light shone in my eyes, bright and piercing and this big, rugged and ugly man with one arm came up and yelled, “What kind of a stunt do you think you’re pulling???!!!!”

I said that I was sorry; I had gone the wrong way at the fork.

“)*^(*&(&^) car parking lot)()(*)*&&)(_&^ FIND IT.

So I kept my mouth shut and as someone flattened themselves against the passenger side door as if they could dissolve into it, I went the wrong way down the truck lane to reach the car parking lot.

We went in the restroom; we stopped at the vending machine area . . . and all the way to Dayton, I heard:

WHAT KIND OF STUNT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PULLING?

I heard it that night in the apartment; I heard it the next day and the day after that.

Even getting lost didn’t shake her out of her obsession with the one-armed yelling man.

Alien Poo, I’m surprised you brought up the topic of “the rest stop story” since you know all the details. Why would you want to read it? Because you want to make me blush?

So, okay, though, I will tell it:

We pulled into a rest stop where a big white van was parked as well and Summer thought she heard, “Help us! Help us!” coming from inside it. So I courageously went up to one of the small back windows and looked in and saw ELVES THAT WERE BEING KIDNAPPED.

Just at that moment, the truck driver, who I noticed had one arm, came up behind me and raised a heavy flashlight in his one hand to hit me over the head. When I spun around, he quickly flicked the switch and shone it in my eyes as if he were illuminating my view.

But, I knew it was a fake reprieve until any witnesses were gone; I drove my head into his solar plexus and Summer and Cameron jumped on top of him. We called the police and they came and freed the elves and we all got a medal from Santa. Needless to say, the one-armed man is on the Naughty list.

Is that okay, Alien Poo?