I’d better write this right now, before I get caught up in some Saturday morning to-do. While checking my email, I saw that on one of my rare forays into Facebook, I had sent a friend request to Kathy Young, who is a very, very nice lady here in Kendallville.  She had sent me an acceptance notification and I popped over to her Timeline and found she likes  “Backroads Girl”. At first I thought it was a book and clicked over to investigate. It turns out it is a Facebook page.

I scanned down the page and found a poem. I’m not a physical risk-taker, but it reminded me of some moments in my still undignified, past 60 life.  The first one that popped into mind was Socmonkeyjawea and the firepit dancing, but we can gloss over that.

Here is the poem, as cited on Backroads Girl. It is by Mary Oliver.

Don’t you dare climb that tree
or even try, they said, or you will be
sent away to the hospital of the
very foolish, if not the other one.
And I suppose, considering my age,
it was fair advice.

But the tree is a sister to me,
she lives alone in a green cottage
high in the air and I know what
would happen, she’d clap her green hands,
she’d shake her green hair,
she’d welcome me. Truly

I try to be good but sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to be. It’s impossible not
to remember wild and want it back. So

if someday you can’t find me you might
look into that tree or – of course
it’s possible – under it.

– Mary Oliver

Shane and I are here, holding down the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and keeping a light on in the window. Shane has made a couple of trips to check and see if Quentin has reconstituted himself from the scents he left behind on pillows and blankets; he comes back then and lies down with his head between his paws and looks up at me with soulful eyes. Of course, he might be milking it a little for extra treats . . . can you say “cheese”? . . . Uh, you know, AmeliaJake, it might cheer me up just a bit.

While Quentin was here, he wore his grandpa’s old super warm jacket and, yes, the sock monkey hat. Said hat is now in the backseat of Der Bingle’s car; Q doesn’t need it – when he landed in Houston, it was 70 degrees. Maybe we should have someone crochet him a light-weight sock monkey hat – or maybe fashion one out of foil threads so it will also repel alien mind controlling rays. Come to think of it, maybe I should add a bit of tinfoil to my hat. Possibly, it is too late, though.

Well, all you little peanut butter eaters out there, I think I am going to run over to the nursing home earlier today and get back before dark since it is COLD and the roads have gunk on them. You do know what I carry in my trunk this time of year, don’t you? Yes, a jar of peanut butter and some crackers, a few bottles of water . . . and, at the moment, a bottle of Blueberry Sparkling Grape Juice. I also have my mother’s Fargo-type hat from Land’s End. I may or may not post a self-portrait later.

Stay tuned because I think enough time has passed that I can relate the Hawaiian Sock Monkey Christmas Ornament story. LZP sent it and now he can sit and wonder how cotton balls are involved.

We have two kinds of wood here. Our woodman each year brings a couple of loads that are seasoned and we have a stash of wood that he has brought from previous years that is more dried out.  I let it dry out because obviously the old wood will get burning faster.  Of course, I realize it burns up faster too and it would be more economical to make kindling out of some of the wood that is delivered each year.

Oh, I really don’t think that will happen – AJ with an axe? And don’t even think of her grandchildren with axes . . . one especially might make you self-defensively remember Lizzie Borden.

But, anyway, the trick is to keep the older wood accessible, that is to not bury under the new wood. That pretty much means moving wood more than once – sort of like in the army where you dig a hole and then fill it and then dig it again. The rotation pattern can get, if not complex, at least something like following instructions not written by native English speakers. Sigh.

My method has evolved into an exercise program. Instead of taking armloads of wood, I carry one piece at a time, holding it in various positions as I tote it to a new place. And then there is the walking from pile to pile and the bending over. Just slow steady walking back and forth and forth and back.

To tell you the truth, it is enjoyable in the sense that you start to physically feel better and you have plenty of time to think whatever you want to. I mean, how many people do you think get within speaking distance of a wood-toter? Not many. Sometimes we I am hefting a good-sized loglet up, and getting ready to tread my path, I think of my mother and grandmothers and great-grandmothers I did not know and for a moment imagine them saying, “Well, at least she can work a little.”

This is not a bad task for a soon-to-be old woman.

Every morning I get an email from Amazon.com, notifying me of the Kindle Daily Deal.  Today, for the second time in not to many weeks, it is Romance Day – 99 cents. I know I seem to be  judgmental here; I really do understand that many people find relaxation in a well-written romance novel. I am just not one of them. When I see the “romance” category, I groan. I’m sure other folks no doubt feel the same about spy and mystery novels, historical accounts and those non-story novels that just wander around someone’s mind.

Der Bingle and my younger son are fans of sci-fi; they would even go out to a bookstore in San Diego – The Mysterious Galaxy – to book signings. They wait for books to be announced and do the pre-order process. Many is the time Der Bingle has started a conversation with, “Such and such title is out today; I imagine Quentin will be reading it as soon as . . .” Then, later, in a three-way call, I will listen while they talk about it.

I guess it is not the end of the world – these Romance Days; I’ll probably get through the day. I may have to spike my iced tea with sparkling grape juice though.

I just thought I’d take a moment to mention someone who did us a big favor: Patrick Snow.  When the car stopped (as in wouldn’t go anymore) at Diamond and Riley with my son driving and Colin in the backseat on the way to school, he stopped and took Colin on to school and then came back and took Robert out to Ensley’s Garage. I didn’t hear my cell phone when it rang and so this fellow helped out . . . and made our day a lot nicer. Thank you, Patrick.

I just saw that yesterday’s little post did not get published and I am not surprised. Yesterday was a fun day – one phone call notified me someone in my household was ONE credit shy of something and then the valve broke on the downstairs shower. WOO HOO. The plumber is coming at 2 pm.

But, wait, apparently the Go Wrong Sale has been extended: The burgundy Buick stopped dead at an intersection this morning. I am wondering about this trend.

WEll, GEE, I thought I had pushed “publish” yesterday . . . so, from yesterday:

I just wrote something and it flowed out of me; I waited then to see if I was done. While my fingers hovered over the keyboard, I thought, “Well, Hell, I’ll use this tool function.” Extra spaces between words – I always get that, so I took it in stride  and clicked “CHANGE” repeatedly. Then it put Wubba in red, like this: Wubba and I clicked “IGNORE” and grinned. I mean ignoring a Wubba is the last thing I want to do.