Coming to a close  . . . We have had one of our eclectic birthdays here – a little Kentucky Fried Chicken, which she loves, some pizza of which she is fond, the cake – an Indiana Jones motif. Presents – Civilization 3 for DS . . . and now her grandpa is looking forward to checking it out in a couple of weeks. Alison set the cake on fire when she was lighting the sparkler/candles.

There was ice cream. Oh, and I have a video, but I think I need to edit it before I post . . . seems someone swore when the candles re-lit.

Summer and Sydney

Summer and the fire truck

Summer ready to go to the Apple Festival some years ago – maybe third grade, maybe second.

A Kodak video moment: Yes it is grainy and out-of-focus; I must look at the settings. And yes, we have been trying to get her to agree to a hair trim.

Today, Summer is 12 and as my own personal gift to her, I will not pun . . . about her name, that is. Heavens, that little vow has left me with a blank in my mind. No, wait, I am starting to feel it; that little vow is making me want to pun so much. My tongue is ready to go – it’s twitching. Rats, I should have thought this through.

I can do this. Yeah, with duct tape over my mouth. Gee, this is one of those situations when I am glad duct tape replaced chicken wire (oops, mistyped myself – meant baling wire) as the fix-all option.

Okay, so we are back at Summer being 12. When she first came here, nine years ago this very week, she was not at eye-level with the kitchen counters. Now, she is taller than I and when I look at her, I can’t believe how short I am: Short Grandma . . . short little round grandma . . . .auuugggghhhhhhh. Aunt Bea. Oh, my.

Look! How easily I moved the attention from Summer to . . . ME. Actually, I think she has inherited that talent so when we are together, it is interesting.

Hmmmmm. Do I have the energy and dedication to semi live-blog her birthday?

Here’s a random picture to start: The Season of Peeps Surgical Experimentation:

It has been dry here, dry enough that Summer and I hauled a sprinkler through some shrubs to reach a certain part of the yard and then got wet while adjusting it. But this morning we have rain. It looked like it would be quite a storm but that was not the case for us – a couple of smart lightning bolts and some rain that smelled sweet, as if it carried the cut grasses of the prairie with it. It was most relaxing, and for no necessary reason I lit an oil lamp and carried it to my porch window sill.

Yesterday afternoon when I went to the nursing home, Emory wasn’t feeling well and was going to stay in his room and rest during dinner, so Kathryn and I headed out for a restaurant meal. Albion, however, is a small town platted in the center of the county to be the government center. It has one stop light and unfortunately the counter center was mostly swampy land and the roads that meander around it are paved Indian trails.

It is a little difficult to get yourself established on the surveyor’s grid system when the area was a marsh/swamp/bog when they went through – the town was plopped there later when towns already up and running couldn’t get together on who should be the county seat.

What this means is that we got lost coming back from the restaurant after we had already been wandering around lost on “s” curves going to the restaurant. We  thought it was west of town – but it was west of the construction. But anyway we found this little local place where they sell fish dinners;  I think you identify l a “local secret” eating place is by looking for a building that appears crummy on the outside.

Inside it was clean with big windows looking out on the lake. It also appeared to have been added on in stages –  table space by table space –   as the bar business expanded to service more people who wanted to eat. The bar actually was apparently really local at the beginning because even now it has about six stools – and no window overlooking the lake.

They were doing a brisk take out business and had a brand-new deck with screened in dining area. From that you stepped down to an au natural deck and then onto the pier that kinda, sort of slanted downward to the west. A wheeled cooler would not sit well on this pier, unless you chocked the wheels. Otherwise it would be an impromptu performance of “Diving for Beer” – but then again maybe they just tie a rope on a six pack and let it hang off the pier in the water. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why the pier slopes.

Hey, the sun is out.

YouTube wasn’t processing, so let’s try Google:

New gadget from Der Bingle for my birthday. Yea for AJ.

Yesterday was a day of change – I thought only for my daughter-in-law who had very extreme and extensive dental work – but I am the one who KNOWS it is the same person, but whose eyes are telling them differently. I am amazed at my difficulty of listening to my mind and invalidating the information from my eyes.

But wait, this new person just asked about Wal-Mart. Augggggghhhhhhhhhhh.

I am going to sit in the car and read, but not that Dostoevsky book, The Adolescent, which Cameron has pushed on me. I think it sucks. He says, “Grandma, you insisted I read books – The Eagle Has Landed, The Day of the Jackal, To Kill a Mockingbird . . . ”

Cameron, Cameron . . . that was to get you to feel the pleasures of a story well-told – to see what people could do with English. It is not the story; it is the telling of it. It has always been the words. Where, where in a translation of Dostoevsky do you find a phrase that echoes in your mind?

So, I guess after all these years of reading, I finally realize I don’t care for the story, but the way it is expressed. That is why I can so easily flip to the last pages to see what the ending is when the writing is lacking.

Some people think that is sacrilegious; I think it is good sense.

Sad.

That’s what we are here; that’s what people are feeling all over the country – a big sad.

Thomas Bickle died yesterday afternoon. He died in his dad’s arms. He was not in pain. That is what his mother, Sarah, wrote in her post.

I have been following their story. They don’t know of me and I never met Thomas – nor Sarah, nor Scott. I never smelled the sun in that red hair. I feel a big sad; they feel – God, I don’t know what, but it’s got to be a huge, consuming emotion.

I’m going to be quiet now, and look at Thomas’ light on my window sill. It’s reaching out like a lighthouse.

I just had it pop into my head that I should spend this year becoming “smashing”  . . . in appearance, guys. Although I have to say I can’t blame you for thinking I was turning my violence level up, given my lousy moods of late. I think I should lose weight, dress well  . . .  oh, better stop there. This is already quite a challenge. So what would I end up looking like? I don’t know – guess I’ll have to consult our local seer, The Woo.

Woo says, How bout this:

Yes, there he is in Georgia, finding all sorts of cool links – like this one:

Oh, please, please, let it be true . . . and not staged. And if that honking jerk did anything to the lady, I hope those skateboarders laid into him.

How lucky can I get? Here I have an electronic site that is named after the cow leaning in the field down the road . . . and I find a homespun group that sums up the writing here: EMOOS. This is so great.

Leaving from Wal-Mart and looking east, you see a farm house and field. Today it was in a humidity haze. There is something about that view that makes me want to scale the chain link fence at the edge of the parking lot and start walking toward that old homestead. I have no idea of what it looks like up close, and I don’t fantasize a welcoming farmhouse with a kitchen full of canning ladies. Because, if I did, I think I would climb that fence and not look back.

But that is not true . . . becuse leaving people behind is just not good.

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