Okay, they need to put one more warning on prescription bottles, along with the dizziness and the driving and heavy machinery and grapefruit and so forth; they need a big sticker that says, “Don’t take this unless you have something to drink in each reach.” I tossed a blood pressure pill on my tongue, thinking oh, I’ll grab a swallow of Diet Coke when I go by the porch party cooler.

I got distracted and somehow the pill got on the back of my throat and did not gag me – no, it just sat there until I felt this burning. It was like a bee sting – it increased. After two Diet Cokes and a few minutes of trying not to breathe a lot and draw air over the irritated spot, it is getting better. I think oral mucous has come to the rescue. I never truly thought I would ever say this, but thank gott for snot and phlegm.

Oh, and if any of you have trouble remembering how to spell phlegm, just keep in mind “leg” is in the middle. And to remember that hint, think of foot in the mouth, which logically just HAS to lead you to connect leg and throat. That was for you, Der Bingle – I know my little spelling tricks drive you almost crazy. Oh, and Quentin, do you remember the little spelling tricks I would foist on you while waiting for the bus in West Chester? Or have you been able to repress them?

Things like C-O-N-C-E-N-T-R-A-T-E  . . .  if you don’t have cent in the middle, the end doesn’t rate. hahahahahahahahahaah.

Alison saw this little cow when we ran into a store so I could get a new slip* to be really spruced up when we went to court about my middle grandchild. She thought I would like it; my birthday was just two days away . . . and it was HALF PRICE.

Thank you, Alison, for getting her for me.

* Okay, yes, I wore something over the slip.

Not so good. It is a case of not seeing the other trees well enough because you have been so focused on one tree. I can’t do the forest thing because I am not talking about a lot of trees, just a couple – not even a grove. Living with a child whose condition challenges a normal social order at home has a high price, perhaps not always, but this time, yes. It surprised me; I thought the stabilization of things would open up a world of opportunities for one of those trees, but instead we heard “Timber!” echoing through the now much quieter house.

I think when I was thinking of them as trees, I forgot what trees do – they get rooted in a place, slanted a certain way by a prevailing wind. Still, I want to say, “Reach up.” And, you know what, the part of  AmeliaJake that is not real cool feels like snapping out sarcastically, “Well, what kind of timber are you anyway?” I have to realize that not everyone gets their dander up and shouts back, “I’ll show you.”

I am at a loss. I am out of my league. People are who they are. I am who I am.

And I have to hand it to Der Bingle; no matter what, he stands like an oak. I have leaned on him for a long, long time . . . and he has let me.

So have I learned anything? Do I have anything left in my bag of abilities? Well, maybe I can start by humming Buckle Down Winsocki, Buckle Down. (I think when you buckle up, you are just along for the ride . . . and buck up is like buckle down. I’m rambling I know; I do that a lot. )

And Elmer over there at the table by the pot-belly stove is shaking ihs head and sighing the whisper, “Whatever, but we’re up to our eyeballs in it now.”

Yes, my birthday is coming up – the 61st one, dontcha know. And LZP out in Iowa, whose son Sam has a birthday himself on the 27th – same as me – sent me a box.

I am going to have so much fun using this one:

Can’t you just see me walking into a store and plopping this fellow on the counter, standing on his own feet, of course?

And then there is this sweetheart. She can make you smile in spite of yourself,  through a Big Sad and grumpiness and frustration and whatever:

These have been difficult days; in fact, this has been a difficult decade. In these ten years, hard-to-bear things have happened. I was sitting here, half-reclining, eyes closed, when something bonked into my face and bounced onto my chest. Der Bingle had tossed  this little cow at me as he was on his way out to take Alison to Wal-Mart.

As I simultaneously opened my eyes and grasped the thing on my chest, raising it to my line of vision, my first thought was, “Poor little cow, you don’t even have a name.” And then I pressed her to my face and just sat like that – me and the nameless cow. Her cow snout stuck out, as did my nose, so we compromised and she rested her snout on my forehead and my nose fit in the spot under her snout chin. Whatever you call that area – I suppose her neck, chest region.

She is a comforting little cow. She has a way about her.

Yesterday at Redbox I stood in line behind a little blond boy about four and his parents. He was squatting down the way little four year old boys do, pointing a the picture of a cartoon movie in the very bottom row. I guess, though, there was nothing available in the Redbox the family wanted and they stepped aside. As I stood there, looking at the titles, a little voice came up and asked about that cartoon movie. I looked down at that little face, and if I could have, I would have gotten it for him.

I saw a face asking about Masters of the Universe and Tranzor Z and a slow-witted robot called Bobobot. I looked at the parents who were still there talking about something and I said what so many people once told me: “These years, cherish them.” And my mind added, “for that face will always be so dear to your heart.”

Now, Little Cow is going to help me get my act together.

Hey, LC, stick with the cuddling . . . this tough love punching is annoying.

Last evening I realized that if I started watching a movie, I would fall asleep about ten minutes in and so I actually turned the TV off. Then I snuggled my head into the pillow, pulled the soft and fluffy comforter with the satin edge right up to nose level and . . . I don’t remember any more.

I think this has something to do with a threshold I am crossing in my lifespan. I just accepted it would be wisest to admit I would drop off to sleep. I guess I’ll just sigh and adapt to this development. Gone are the days – and nights – when I would have this sort of calculation in my mind:

Okay, if I crank this stuff out at such and such arate, I should be done by 2 or 3 am. Then I can sleep until 6 am and get up. I took it for granted I would, after a few minutes of bleary-eyed grousing, be an alert and bouncy grouse.

No more. Well, I don’t think I can call this one of life’s surprises.

Now, I have to go search for the reason the sperm whale exploded on a Taiwanese street because I think I may have dozed off for a few critical minutes of explanation. Maybe I’ll spend a year of so fooling the guys here at the PBC&R Cafe about this aging thing. . . I’ll  just bop over to where folks are eating their morning foldovers and ask with my really big grin – that still has teeth – if they saw the show about  whale blood and guts dripping all over everything.

I should probably reconsider that.

Hey, Der Bingle, you and your buds bought the shirt . . .

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)