It has been a long time since we have had a rainstorm here – especially one with steady rain and occasional thunder – and it feels quite refreshing. Of course, being nice and dry under a roof and behind lots of windows helps. We have been dry here I have been using the sprinkler for my grass seed adventures and stubborn tomatoes; I think I should be giving a nod for priming the well.

In truth, our little friend NaPoo has been doing dances to please the rain gods and I guess we will have to pamper her and take her buffalo for walks while her little feet recover. We have not yet explored all the dances NaPoo has in her repertoire . . . a new car dance? a weight-loss dance? an Apple store huge gift cerftificate dance? a beach house dance? Oh, the possibilities.

NaPoo (Native American Poo)

I went out to spread some grass seed and set up the sprinkler and then I looked behind me to see these two urchins on the swing set.

While talking with someone from a local agency, she asked me if I hadn’t written in a local publication. Your name seems familiar she said. Yes, for several years I wrote for this small monthly paper, mainly as an outlet after having written in Cincinnati and having met really interesting people.The sneak previews of swank fundraisers and zoo and museum attractions were good perks, as well.

Somewhere along the way up here, I started writing about an imaginary family – The Wickhams*- and their quirks. Quite frequently some of the members of the extended Wickham family resembled people here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. I suppose if I were still writing about this genetic pool, an upcoming episode would involve an older member of the family on a wild and crazy theme park ride.

Anyway, when this lady asked me about writing, I had a feeling she wasn’t thinking of stories about the Moving VietNam Wall* or fairs or festivals or local economic conditions. I paused and then asked, “Wickhams?” Ah, that she recognized. Me and my Wickhams. Perhaps they are the ones thumping in the attic.

* See Stories from the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.

The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse folks are experiencing an emotional time these last few days – those of us who are regulars and those who check in on us or chat on the sidewalk corner. The middle grandson here, the one who is autistic and has other issues, has reached a stage in his needs where he is now on the path for residential care.

Like a person who was born blind, rather than having gone blind after experiencing the world of sight, this boy has never truly grasped the “what is real” part of life. He has become frustrated and more and more agitated and, unfortunately, more and more violent. This Sunday night, in an impulsive rage, he broke his mother’s wrist with the baluster from the banister. It was a defensive injury – the wrist part. He had been aiming for her head.

It is not something he would choose to do on a multiple choice test. It is not something he would think is an acceptable thing. But, more and more, he cannot choose and think. We are hoping that with professional and intensive treatment, he will get better.

His mother is heart-broken.

We would not have chosen this situation, but there was no choice . . . and here we are.

Now, we will go on with our stories and zaniness here because that is what life does – it goes on.

Okay, there’s something I didn’t tell you about the trip to Kings Island. Well, a lot of things are still waiting to be told, but this is timely. I lost my Driver’s License at Kings Island, so I had to get a replacement. In these days of intensified indentification, I went to the picture of me when I was under two and pulled my birth certificate from the back of it. ONLY IT WASN’T MY BIRTH CERTIFICATE. It was Quentin’s and if I remember correctly Quentin called me a couple of months ago and asked if I had his birth certificate and I said, “Why, no, Quentin. We sent you yours and mine is behind the picture.”

Oh, yes, that is one of the things I told Jeri about as I meandered through my saga . . . and then I told her I thought we could just keep that to ourselves.  Jeri is the employee who helped me at the license bureau here. I was sitting in the molded plastic chair with the number 72 growing moist in my hand.  This tall blonde called out 71 and no one responded. “72,” she then summoned. I stood up, approached the counter, sat down, looked at her and said, “I have a valid Indiana driver’s license but it is at the bottom of the White Water Canyon ride at Kings Island.”

She grinned and asked, “And you didn’t fish for it?” No, no. I hadn’t. I told her I was too busy sort of throwing up  . . . ”

Yes, that was what happened when I wrote the Diamondback, developed motion sickness and did not reach the point of total recovery before I headed over to White Water Canyon.  I thought since that ride was a wetish one, it would refresh me. Some of the folks in my raft found it to be wetish – I got drenched.

And then the boat slowly rotated . . . and did it again . . . and again. Finally, I turned my head over my shoulder and gave in to the spasms of motion sickness. And I did it again . . . and again . . . and again . . .and again . . . and again. Then the ride ended. I put my head down and got on the rotating deck, staggered to the solid cement and then trekked down the exit trail.

Somewhere and sometime in this White Water Canyon junket, my driver’s license took a dive.

And, then on the walk to my car this morning, I found I didn’t have my birth certificate. I thought I was doomed. But Jeri was very nice and helpful and went through my papers and laughed at mey stories and took my picture and put my new license in my hand.

I had been so apprehensive I had left my purse at home and paid for my license by pulling out a ziplock bag with money in it – one of those I had stuffed in my pockets while at the theme park. For Jeri, it was sort of the coup de grace of an AmeliaJake tale.

But. thank you, Jeri; thank you for being so friendly and understanding and nice.

Ahem. Yesterday Der Bingle called me to relay the news about the amusement park ride in Santa Clara that had stuck at the top of the track. The Invertigo. Summer and Der Bingle and Alison rode it at Kings Island; the latter two rode it twice. Summer says, “Not again.”

Here I am, standing in line for the Diamondback ride at King’s Island.

And here Summer and I are after the ride. Note the Diet Coke Der Bingle purchased for me to help settle my motion sick stomach. This is before the wait for the White Water Canyon Ride and the subsequent ride . . . which was eventful.

Yeah, THE ride. DIAMONDBACK

factoids: New in 2009 is Diamondback – the tallest, fastest and meanest roller coaster to ever strike Kings Island.  Diamondback stands 230 feet at its highest point with a first drop of 215 feet at a 74 degree angle and snakes its way around 5,282 feet of track in excess of 80 miles per hour!  The ride features 10 vertical drops overall including drops of 193, 131, 129, 110 and 106 feet, two helixes – one at 323 degrees and the other at 287 degrees – and a spectacular splashdown ending.

They have a new name for me at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse: Ms. STUPID.

We are off to Ohio and Kings Island – Alison, Summer and I. Tomorrow Summer will be 13 and I will be 10 – count them: 1,2,3, 4, 5, 6,7, 8,  10 – years older than when she came.  Ten years. Yes, I know I skipped 9, but 7 ate 9, don’tcha know. Anyway, the Summer birthday thing is the reason we are headed off on this trip.

Now I have to run around like a chicken with her head cut off to get ready. HA! Like I will ever be ready.

Yes, yes, I know that I said I’d be back sometime yesterday, but I goofed up, okay? I’m here now, and in a pretty good mood after having three cousins – my dad’s nieces stop by.

Here they are, plus my dad’s great-granddaughter:

Susie, Summer of a later generation, Glenda and Ann.

We sat out on the porch here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and talked about whatever and what was. Summer, of course, just made a brief appearance because I forced her.

Glenda called from the Village View Bed&Breakfast to give me a report – and it was good. They are staying in this room – the Upson. Glenda also told me the lady who greeted them, and I am assuming it is the one who runs the place, is very nice.  The village the name refers to is Howe, Indiana and it used to be known as Lima. My grandmother graduated from Lima High School in 1900; I wonder if she ever stared out a school window and looked at a place where her granddaughter’s cousins would spend a couple of nights 109 years later. Probably not. Although I sometimes drive by a prison and wonder if someday I will be visiting my granddaughter there.

Hey, don’t get on my case . . . her grandpa and great-grandmother figure she doesn’t need a college fund as much as a bail money fund.