Today the snow is coming down and the wind is taking it this way and that in broad sweeping strokes. I suppose I’ll take some pictures. Here are some from yesterday . . . It’s comfy in the PBC&R.

New wood delivery – the sign says, “Friends Gather Here” – but not really in this weather. We need it to say: “Wood Carriers Gather Here”.

Waiting in line at the middle school for Summer. Sydney is in the backseat, watching . . . watching . . . waiting . . . . Where is she? Where is she? Is she coming? Is something wrong? Why isn’t she here?

Oh, and here is Mother and Tiffany. Wow, Sydney and I are so thrilled to be posting a picture of a furry thing that is not a dog.

Today I am walking around with a trash bag affixed to my hand/body/duct-taped to my pants . . . whatever . . . and I am gathering and tossing all things that cannot convince me they need to stay in this house. They had better be fast and loud talkers because I think I will put on my ipod earphones while I sort the chaff from the wheat – and let me tell you, some of the wheat may not be safe.

This morning, just after five, Cameron shows up to wake me and say, “I need a USB thingie; I think I left it in this glass ashtray.” Well, that was maybe three months ago and the glass ashtray is a Depression glass candy dish that is now in two pieces because someone knocked it off and, finally, I know a couple of months ago, I said to Der Bingle, “There’s the USB  thingie you gave me in the glass dish when he needed to use it.” So it has not been in the dish for a long time.

I’m taking a breath now.

But at  five in the morning, in a last minute homework transporting mission, I look. And, I find two. The thing is this: When I was in high school and procrastinated, I always did my own scurrying around. Why do they think I should do their scurrying. Are they not capable of it.

OH.

YES, I REMEMBER.

Maybe I shouldn’t call them bozos. It encourages them.

Anyway, this agitation has led to my new mimalist outlook. But I think the regulars at the PBC&R are going to reach out. I hope they bring Diet Coke with a splash of Coke and some snacks to the intervention. And maybe a hassock for my feet.

Sydney and I took Summer to school and as I automatically pulled into the driveway and around the big spruce and crawled to a stop, I realized, “Oh, Sydney and fairgrounds.” It was cold in the car; we hadn’t had time to warm up, but there he was looking at me. So I put it in reverse, turned around and we drove back onto the street and headed for the FG.

It was not yet truly light as I wound my way through the trees on the narrow camping road, following the slightly filled-in tracks from our visit the day before. Not enough light to work a Sudoku as I let him out to run. I could see the snowflakes drifting through the dim light in front of me and the heater was warming me . . . and it occurred to me there is something pleasing about watching the purity of a quiet winter morn from a warm spot. Watching it alone; just yourself.

You are there, sort of inert. What you are is what you are. No other personalities serve as catalysts to bring out your not-so-good traits. No one is there to put on a front for, no one to hide tears from. Tears for those who have gone and who were hurt by you being you because you were so long to wise up. Tears for those with whom you have lost opportunities, have not tried hard enough. Actually, the tears are for you; you cry for yourself and the tears carry the stress hormones and ease things a little – maybe make the truth a little easier to look at in retrospect. Well, what it is is that you are feeling sorry for yourself. But there in the quiet of a morning when life is stripped to the bare bones, you really don’t think about why this or why not that. It is just a brief time when you are honest with yourself and it hurts. And you are human.

Years ago, well, nine to be exact, you spent hours driving Alison to work in Fort Wayne and back home, then back to get her and bring her back 12 hours later. Death had come to someone you had loved forever and in the car, there was the sound of John Denver and the muppets and the song “When the river meets the sea.” You would hit replay and after awhile, you could cry quietly; often you would get home before your tears had run their course and you thought: “The road isn’t long enough.”

Well, never mind that now. Light has become stronger and  you see movement: squirrels running freely from tree to tree. They are not worried.  A thought clicks, “Where IS that dog?” For a moment, you wonder if because he is old, he has grown tired for the last time and is lying somewhere. You brace yourself . . . and then, in your line of sight between the hood of the car and the ground beyond, there are those floppy ears. With the door open, he jumps in and his fur brushes softly across your face. And ir feels a little as if the final notes of a bagpipe playing Amazing Grace are lingering in the distance.

Today I went up to the walk-in closet in the sitting room and took an empty trash bag with me; I filled it with things to throw away. I thought it would be easy; it was really not. First of all, I simply will not throw away anything with the Banana Rebulic Safari & Travel Company label in it. God, I loved that store. You walked in there and you were in the tropics – army jeep, jungle bird noises, khaki, khaki and khaki. Then the Gap bought it. A sad day.

Okay, Lands End is so soft and comfy, but I actually did get rid of a fleece hoodie that was snot green. I think it was on sale for a couple of dollars. It was warm but I started to hate it . . . along with the other one I had purchased at the same time for the same incredibly low price. Who knew snot green was just too hard to live with even in a darkened room.

Talbots – never, even if you have to relegate them to the paint clothes or toilet clean up clothes. Jones of New York – no. LLBean – no. Columbia – Heavens, no. And, of course, there is no way I can part with even the cheapest scrap of something that has Pacific Beach on it, with San Diego being a close second. The Crystal Pier, Kono’s, Skechers Outlet, my coffee shop balcony looking out over the boardwalk to the ocean, my walk down to the beach . . . and back. And, my special touchstone, Lifeguard tower 22. Well, the tower was down a little ways; number 22 was sort of like a big football helmet shaped shelter on a pile of sand.

Ah, better get a grip. Have to get Summer and bring her home. shudder

It is gloomy here – no sunlight at all, just an overcast sky without any variations in the gray. So, is my mother sleeping in or is she up and around, all coffee-fied with wood in the stove and the crossword in her hands? I don’t know. Should I call now or later. This would be what Quentin would refer to as the morning death call. Yes, I know, horrible, isn’t it.  And, of course, there is the night death call. He was still a teenager when he first used the phrase. Now, if the topic comes up, it is “the . . . call” – but we know it’s the death call. I guess when she was in her early 70’s and really robust, it was kind of a Saturday Night Live thing. Now, she’s in her 80’s, tires easier, is afraid of strokes and Alzheimers and, well, it’s not obviously as much of a joke.  Even I, when she doesn’t answer for a few times in a row, start gathering my car keys and wondering about calling someone working nearby. Then she answers and says, “I was out chopping wood or rebuilding the garage door . . . something like that.

Okay, I’m calling.

Picked up on about the fifth ring – said she was signing her name on a check and finished that. Okay. This did not bode well; I figured she was going to say she was paying her health insurance and that would have triggered a long oft-heard speech on how she doesn’t take medicine, go to doctors or intend to go to a hospital. Pays in all this money and illegals are getting free care at the ER – except she’s the one paying for part of their care. Yes, she has a point . . . like a bulldog with an indestructible bone.

My mother has “moods” – often.  I suppose to her I have “whatevers”.

Well . . . whatever.

Today has not been my best day and I have a long and involved story about having to make several phone calls that entailed being on hold for quite a while. One number I had to call three times; it would have only been two times had I not dropped the phone just as the music cut off after 20 minutes and a voice said, “Hello, how can I help you. This is Lois.” Right then the top part of the phone slid down over the bottom and ended the call. I could only sigh, “Oh, Lois.”

Twenty minutes later, I got another representative . . . and I don’t remember her name at all.

Oh, obviously I am not going into this long and involved story . . . just reporting on the Lois part. Don’t be concerned; it’s not that interesting of a tale.

Let’s see, two weeks ago we were listening to Christmas carols and munching on special cheeseballs and getting recipes pulled out of drawers . . . and duct taped when needed. Last Sunday, it was the lull after Christmas and the gathering of non-alcoholic sparkling drinks for New Year’s. This Sunday, ah, this Sunday is the day before the return to school and the march through midwest winter and early spring. It is slush time – slush time without any glimmering lights.

I am considering hibernation. Hibernation with some books, some nice warm afghans and shortbread cookies, left over from the holidays. We have expanded our cable choices and now can get Turner Classic Movies and much more. I am now watching a show on the London Blitz.  January, February and March in Northern Indiana have a teeny, tiny bit of a blitz about them. Hunkering down and waiting it out, hoping you don’t have a flat tire in a blizzard or power outages.

I exaggerate.

My itching is better and my shingles are drying up.

Oh, yeah, the Colts lost. Well, rats. They are wannabe Cubs . . . and they are succeeding.

We made homemade pizzas today; I crusted and chopped toppings. Now my shoes and socks are off and I’m watching some more of the Twilight Zone marathon. Oh no . . . It’s the one where Burgess Meredith has all the time to read in a destroyed world and his glasses break. Hope that’s not a sign of how the year’s going to go.

Did I mention I have shingles? Well, they are kind of getting my attention. They itch . . . a lot, sometimes. And, other parts of my body have started playing the “Let’s make AmeliaJake ask, Is my knee (elbow, hip, foot, neck, cheek, stomach . . . ) itching?” game. Oh, that cheek reference – I meant the facial cheek; AmeliaJake would never ever refer to buttockal cheeks. Although, all these years of hearing others do so has allowed that usage to creep into her mind. How about this exclamation: Kick your ass so high, your buttcheeks will be earmuffs!

Auuuuggggghhhhhhh . . . .