Der Bingle can get vocally upset about some things. My mother gets that way about most things. He and she have something in common – they can go over and over the grievance when something reminds them of it. Maybe someone in the world breathed in and out – that can get them going.

Today, Der Bingle calls to inquire about Summer’s mood and ask if Grover had been found.  Okay, I’m a little twitchy myself and refer to a “non-action” of someone else. That was enough to get the”inappropriate use of earphones” speech going. Now, I agree with it, as I agree with a lot of what Der Bingle thinks. However, he is sort of like one of those stuffed animals that has a built-in recording. You know, the kind that makes you look for and find a screwdriver and take the battery out . . . and hide the battery.

So, the twitchy one – me – twitched and exclaimed, “You’re like my mother: how many times have I heard about the snowplow man who refills her driveway and mashes down her snow shovel sculpted pillars   . . . and the man who mows his lawn too often  and . . .” I think we hung up then.

I call my mother to tell her about how she and Der Bingle have driven me bananas. She laughs and then says, “AmeliaJake, I have a serious question for you . . .  The refrigerator freezer is letting the ice cream get soft and the refrigerator section is warmer than it should be. Could it have something to do with the outside temperature?”

I know I need a brick wall to thunk my head against because I know Mother is not referring to the outside outside temperature. No, she is referring to the temperature outside of the refrigerator – that is, the temperature of the kitchen. Mother believes in heating by pilot light. Not that she can’t afford heat. She does this . . .  and other things because she is, well, Mother.

Yesterday, a particularly angled north wind was blowing, making the use of her favorite little wood stove in the kitchen unfeasible. She could have turned up the regular heat; she did not.She never does. It drives me crazy. She believes in putting on more sweaters. She believes in seeing her breath. She approved of Scrooge’s rationing of coal for the stove where Bob Cratchit worked.

Fortunately for me, Mother gave me some years ago a piece of a foam “brick” wall that I can put on a door and bang my head on when necessary. I use it a lot.

Actually, I am not a breadmaker, nor for that matter, a breadwinner. I am indebted to Der Bingle for just about everything.  Anyway, Cameron announced, oh, about a week ago, that he wanted to make bread. Well, okay, I thought, we can handle that. His mother, Alison, was thinking about homebaked bread herself, so things seemed to be working out.

There is a wee bit of a problem though; breadmaking is one of those things that really should be passed down from one person to another. I’m certain my grandmothers baked bread, and I think my mother knows and has worked with fancy breads . . . but we had storebought bread for our peanut butter sandwiches. Mother didn’t believe in letting me in the kitchen, telling my father that “anyone who could read, could cook”, thereby sliding away from the fact that so many aspects of skills are the tricks of the trade sort of thing.

So, I’m thinking this bread experiment would be the blind leading the blind and probably frustrating. I rounded up Der Bingle and we went to Wal-Mart and bought a BREADMAKER. We are in the process of making our first basic loaf. We may or may not post a picture of our first product.

UPDATE: Oh, I accidentally typed breakmaker as the post title – tempted to leave it. The bread was eaten before I could get a photo. Maybe tomorrow.

Here is Sydney’s new buddy from Rural King.

Then when we checked out with our tarp and stakes and dog treats, gummy worms and gummy bears and those yucky circus peanuts Der Bingle likes -as well as some wintergreen mints to send to Quentin along with a cute little brown resin bear that carries big bears hugs. The wintergreen mints are pink and Quentin got his love of them from my grandma whose first name was Jessie and who was born in 1881. I loved her dearly. A generational link that skipped two generations – my mother’s and mine – and ties together two who are so dear to my heart.

Oh, yeah, I also got gummy bears, but I’m not supposed to tell that to Der Bingle’s bear colony friends. But, anyway, here we were, checking out and the cashier says if we buy a Rural King burlap bag for $1.49, we will get 10% off our purchase. I say yes and then mention about buying a lawn tractor or something like that and getting 10% off. The cashier tells me, “It has to fit in the bag, Ma’am.”

Well, you know I watched “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” last night and a couple of days ago I was writing about Hub’s speech in “Secondhand Lions”. And, so now the lost cause mantra is in my mind – especially the part about lost causes being the only causes worth fighting for. I was puttering around upstairs, thinking that I needed a lost cause and this thought popped into my head: Look into the mirror, AmeliaJake.

Well, that’s self-pity. I’m not a lost cause; I can’t be; I love and care about enough people to not be a lost cause – to not let them down. And so, by gosh, I’m fighting for this non-lost cause. I may not be successful, but I am certainly going to try. Because, you know, I should try.