Yes, we are talking birthdays. Eighteen seemed a good age when I turned it, but when my older son turned 18, it made me feel old. Now his son is 18 – TODAY. He wants a turkey

*some time passage*

and it is now in the roaster. He likes dark meat so we have some turkey legs to add. Some years the added legs were so big the Christmas leg eaters looked liked underage Henry VIII’s.

How about this. I forgot to come back after “some more time passage” and post this on Cameron’s birthday.

The roofers who were to come last week had a death in the family and so this week they are roofing.

There was probably and ulterior motive to my titling this post “Roofing” – Der Bingle set my brain to simmering when he mentioned that Rose should have her own column here at The Leaning Cow. Do I see a coup in the future? Anyway, my ‘roof’ is kinda, sorta, might be getting ready to blow. Why don’t we call it The Leaning Rose?  Der Bingle said she could have the byline “Dr. Rose” and her little picture at the top. I hear things like “Rose is so nice” and “You just don’t want to let Rose down” all the time.

And, of course, she is patiently talking to me about my issues, as she calls them. Well, Rose, IT’S NOT WORKING FOR ME. Actually, I can see the truth of it. She is nicer, kinder, and more comforting than I. And her empathy and sympathy are off the charts. So are mine – but on the bottom of the chart.

I mean Rose is wonderful and I don’t want to let her down  . . . . . AUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHH

Hmmm, the roofers brought a HUGE dumpster with them; I’ll bet if something ‘fell’ in there, it would virtually disappear. Who am I fooling? Withing 15 minutes, the roofers would be drawn to her glow and turn the dumpster into a leather-lined posh office for Dr. Rose.

I guess Sophie and I will go have a cure together.

Hi. Rose here. I was upset about being sniffed but I got a bunch of self-stick scratch and sniff patches on Amazon.com and am charging for the sniffs. I got the variety pack so I don’t always smell like a rose, though. I thought about ordering the Barnyard Collection, but decided that was not in my own best interest.

Der Bingle came out and AmeliaJake told him about the rose smelling thing and he replied, “Oh, I thought she was writing about the cross-dressing reindeer. I told him no, but now I am thinking, “Oh, Rose, just go for it.” First I have to borrow AJ’s camera – the little red one that matches my hair.

Okay . . .

This is our friend, The Clone, who happens to look like many of our other friends. They have a singing group, by the way, called the Sigh-Clones – Torch Singers, don’tcha know. I told her to wave to you. (Are you waving back?)

Now, brace yourself.

You see, when The Clone jumped into AJ’s cart at GoodWill she was wearing these little underpants. I’ve slanted the picture here because it looked so stupid with her just standing there showing her underpants. Actually, it is one of the ways we know she is THE clone.

Well, one morning we got up and found this:

Oh, did I forget to tell you to brace yourself. Sorry.

But, yes, we found our green-nosed reindeer wearing The Clone’s underpants, or as he called them, panties. He claims he was at a costume party. Anyway, he has to go before a Board of Review up at the North Pole. Some of the elves are calling it the Board of Rearview.

That is all we know for now . . . other than to say, The Clone was very, very upset – and upset wasn’t the exact word she used.

This is Shane on the floor of the dining room by an old trunk. Not too interesting, I suppose, but he and I often find ourselves looking eye to eye this way. Same look, different places.

See that sticker on the trunk? Could have been one of Great Aunt Sara’s travels – by Greyhound. Once, long before this, Aunt Sara was riding with my grandma in her old Buick and her hat wouldn’t fit in – so she rode with her head sticking out the back window.

Here’s one of our tradition deviled egg plates. Actually we could use a little conveyor belt on which the eggs could ride past us in endless delight. Or perhaps just lie under the table and let the eggs drop right into our mouths.

Ah, and here’s the reindeer that we call a moose. He’s standing on an old radio console that often has a CD player hidden inside.

He’s little blurry; I think the light coming in from the neighboring window affected the exposure. Or perhaps he and Der Bingle have been trying out eggnog recipes.

And, for now, here is the end of the table as it moves into the upcoming Thanksgiving mode.

Oh, wait. This is the picture of the corner – table and reindeer/moose. Well, the table’s still in the picture.

First it will be the cake-holding table for Cameron’s birthday cake. It’s on the 16th and he will be 18. The first time he had a cake here on this table, he was seven. He had a birthday party and his great-grandparents were here.

Daddy was reading on the porch with the dogs and keeping the French doors closed . . . but Sydney and Little Ann kept showing up. We thought Great Grandpa was slacking on his job, but it turned out Cameron was slipping up and opening the door enough for them to join the party.

Mother was supposedly keeping Summer occupied, but every time I turned around the two of them were peeking in at the party. (Peas in a pod)

That was the last Cameron birthday, the last Thanksgiving and the last Christmas my father saw.

I think the coming year we left my father’s place empty at the Thanksgiving table . . . and then the next year, I decided to sit Cameron there. I believe the dogs sat beside him and he gave them table treats . . . just the way his great-grandfather always had.

Well, I don’t have a picture because I left my camera in my pocket . . . and, gee, that’s too much for AmeliaJake to remember. The wreath was completed in situ, sort of like the Sistine Chapel. Hey, that’s an accurate statement as far as how it was worked on. I don’t think that people will throng to see the wooden Pilgrim girl smack dab in the center of the wreath though . . . but I consider it inspired.

Here’s the back story: Last year at Thanksgiving I took over a crafted, wooden figure of a Pilgrim girl that was, oh, eight or nine inches high and we sat her on a table among Thanksgiving gourdy things and “be thankful” things. It was a nice display, but then Thanksgiving was over and it was time to bring in some Christmas stuff and just like at home, I had trouble stuffing the Pilgrim person (being politically correct here) into a box and saying, “See you next year as I closed the lid.”

I told Kathryn I thought it would be all right if Pilgrim Person just sat around watching the holiday season and she agreed. And, then we figured she would enjoy watching out the window during winter as birds came to the feeder and then, of course, watching spring come was cool. Yes, she has been standing over there all year and yesterday I looked at the wreath on the door and the pile of raffia I had brought over and I thought I knew a good place our Pilgrim. Right in the center of the wreath. So I managed to tie her in there. The tying in part isn’t as bad as it seems; it is more of a securing tactic since nurses and attendants walk in and out all the time and we don’t want her to kiss the floor in one big smack.

I think it looked it looks really good  . . . and I had a really enjoyable time doing it. ( I guess you REALLY get the idea) People went by and looked out from other rooms as I stood fussing with it, getting it just the way I wanted it and obviously being in a good mood doing it. It came to mind that maybe they weren’t just seeing the best damn Thanksgiving wreath being made right before their eyes, but that they appreciated the act of a participation in life. And I thought well maybe they see that Kathryn is the kind of person who inspires it; her example nudges people to be better.

I don’t know, but I felt involved and I felt Kathryn was involved, grinning as she joined in AmeliaJake antics.

Now we have to think about how we are going to incorporate Pilgrim girl into a Christmas display.  Maybe I can manage to portray her as celebrating Christmas. I will think on it. Holding her own miniature wreath? Holding a candle? Holding a plucked goose? Okay, nix the last thought. But we’ll get there – as long as I have raffia, duct tape and my no-holds-barred-imagination.

Thanksgiving is coming, although all the stores are gearing up for Christmas, I think Thanksgiving deserves a lot of attention. I don’t see it as just a day for remembering what we have to be thankful for or as a commemoration of the the Pilgrims making it through a year.

For me, having been born in 1948 to a Midwestern families who had been in Indiana for over 100 years were descended from earlier settlers in the East, it was a combination of both. I remember my grandmother saying that her grandmother had walked out here beside a wagon.

Back then I took it for granted that I had the stuff to be a little Pilgrim girl; now I am wiser and sincerely doubt it. However, each day is a new world and there is only stopping or going forward – there is no going back. So . . . today is today; and today I am finishing up a Thanksgiving wreath for Mrs. Feller’s door.

Finishing and repairing. There were some problems:

Okay, here’s the turkey.

Yes, the raffia is going in the one hole in the structure . . . and it ain’t pretty. Not only that, physics determines that he hangs all akilter. So I tucked him in at the bottom of the wreath. Then Sydney jumped on it and got tangled up and he wound up swinging.

But wait, there is more.

Here is a little Pilgrim girl dangling by her neck. Want to feel even worse? Look below.

Look at that cheerful little face with the gleaming blue eye, so reflective of her belief that her AmeliaJake will fix everything. Optimism even after the march of dog paws and the dragging that ensued. Oh, Little Pilgrim Girl, I am so humbled by your trust.

Well, okay, let’s have a go at it.

I just looked at the computer clock and then out the window and it hits me . . . We are back on Slow Time. Or to make it clear to younger folks – yes, Quentin, I am thinking of you – Standard Time. Unfortunately, it is Eastern Standard Time, even though we are in the MIDWEST. I didn’t intend to capitalize that; I just did – perhaps it is the passion moving my caps lock key finger.

This week is to be “new roof week” with an Amish crew. I must remember to have them change the spotlight bulbs on the two-story driveway corners. Better write a note for the refrigerator. Or perhaps I should just put a post-it note on my forehead when I talk with the chief roofer.

It’s funny how you don’t know things about people – this roofing guy and I were talking last week and I asked if I could get back to him on an alteration in plans the next day. He said he was going to be gone, but would check later. Turns out he takes his daughter to Cancer Treatment Centers of America in Chicago for check-ups. They had told her at Fort Wayne there was nothing more they could do for her and the doctors at the CTC weren’t optimistic, but that was a year ago and she doesn’t need another scan check for three months now. So she starts this holiday season with some upbeat news.

He said, “We was close, but it brought us closer.” It seems even shingles have a story.

Is it airing your dirty laundry to remark that a family seems addicted to the musical chair version of “Who’s crazy now?” Oh, it would be. Well, never mind then and, after all, I didn’t mention the family in question.

So, on with the routine. Oh, dear, that involves crazy, too. Well, try to ignore it.

Yesterday had the makings of a garage cleaning, leaf-blowing, leaf-raking country song. I guess the end line of the refrain would have to be: Since I didn’t leaf vacuum, it didn’t suck. Actually, the main theme was fighting the impeding rain.

I worked as long as I thought wise in the garage, moving some stuff that could use a nice dust-off out to the driveway. I used the leaf blower to send all the little windblown-in debris heading back out of the garage and moved on to the little picket fence area, the woodpile areas, the garbage can niche, the hedge line and the under the blue spruce area. It was sort of fulfilling, watching the dry leaves before the Black & Decker hurricane fly.

They were so dry, however, they tended to disintegrate and form a nice leaf dust that permeated the space around me. Then the sky grew ominous and I grabbed this rake that is sort of the Godzilla of rakes and “rake-dozed” my piles to the curb.

I was done with what I wanted to do that day; I felt the first sprinkles and scurried back into the garage. I looked at the result of my work and thought, “Aha, and now the rain will wash the dust way.” I went inside and cleaned myself from leaf-entwined hair to ankles that were pitted with high-velocity dust, as opposed to summer’s high-velocity grass and weed particles.

I sat down and chanced to look out the window. It was not raining. I stared hard because maybe it was a fine rain. Well, it wasn’t fine because it wasn’t raining. I went out and saw I could count the sprinkle splashes on the dusty surfaces . . . including my car.

If I could keep up with my tipping points, this would be one of them.

My glasses went missing for two days during the few minutes it took me to take a shower. I am the person who has her glasses on her face for every waking hour and quite a few sleeping ones, so this quick and complete disappearance  was totally unexpected. I mean I am the Queen of Quick Showers and so we are talking mere minutes and a limited area. I thought I would find them in a matter of seconds, but this Nancy Drew bumbled around her mystery for two whole days.

It’s not that I can’t see without my glasses so much that the pull on my eye muscles is close to painful and alarms go off in my brain.

Fortunately, I had just purchased new glasses in the past few months, so the old ones had not made several trips from one drawer to another and eventually into the Black Hole of Forever Gone. And I had also signed up for the mega insurance plan for replacements if necessary. I was able to hop into my contingency plan and stave off the no glasses panic.

Still, misplacing my glasses is so UnAmeliaJake  it is ridiculous; it drove me about as crazy as not having them.

When Quentin called shortly after the crisis arose, he reminded me of the time a dog took his glasses and chewed them. I looked at Shane with my twitching-muscled eyeballs and thought certainly not. After searching the small area where they could logically be down to almost the molecular level, I was starting to wonder. The fact that the rubber dog hair removal brush had gone missing just as quickly earlier in the day did not bode well.  The fact that he had gone outside shortly before I discovered them gone was not encouraging.

Then last night, just about the same time of day they disappeared, I put my hand down on the rug by where I was sitting and felt them. It was disconcerting; I had looked right at that area over and over again and there had been no glasses there. Now, voila, glasses? I didn’t see any obvious damage. I also didn’t go running out to other rooms announcing the find. It was too eerie. People would have asked where I found them and I wasn’t prepared to get into any paranormal talk.

As for Shane  . . . let’s just say he might become a “usual suspect” since during my search I found a Wubba and numerous dog treats stashed in various places.

Since I had not logically located the glasses, it seemed I was not Nancy Drew; and when I looked in my driveway, there was no roadster. I think that makes it definite.

Again, so . . .

I entered the title before eight this morning and here, at 9:37 pm, I am starting a wee post. A tense day, but I am here still. Obviously. I voted this afternoon and, to my mind, one of the two ladies on duty for my precinct and an adjacent one sported a visage that was not too friendly at all. I don’t know if she knew me from somewhere and thought, “Oh, another dratted Republican.” Or it could be she just thought, “Oh, her.”

I got my “I Voted Today” sticker, though. In a while I will turn over to a news station for the results, probably with the sound down  to avoid the pundits. I got impatient and peeked over at a news site and . . . YES. Senator-Elect Coats, this little vote of mine helped you shine.