Hello there. Bob here. I managed to get a couple of quick snaps of AmeliaJake in her foil hat. The first is while we were waiting and the second is after she received the message. Oddly enough, I, Bob, heard nothing out of the ordinary – just the slow swish of the ceiling fan.

Notice the dazed look – that is how I was able to get the picture.

Aha! Twin white informational beams transfer from our receiver right to AJ. Notice the Aha eyebrow.

More later from your friend,

BOB

I forgot yesterday. Mother asked if I had forgotten; she knows me well enough not to ask if I had called.  I forgot to call David for firewood – a couple of loads for me and a load for Mother, cut in short lengths for her stove. I don’t have to make a note of it here – unless I really want to forget to do it. I figure I will log in four or five times, slap my head as I realize I have forgotten and finally call.

Then it will be stacking time – making the piles of old and new. I have some wood that is oh, maybe 11 years old now, stacked by Quentin, Mother, Daddy and me. I left it for a long time, couldn’t bring myself to use it . . . and then last year thought, “Well, this is stupid.” So I have been using it bit by bit. Those are bittersweet fires; I have them when I am alone and I breathe them in. Well, shoot, now my throat’s all tight and hurting.

I think I am tomatoed out for a while; the idea of placing a slice of tomato on my tongue and savoring the moment no longer appeals to me. I see a tomato on a vine and think, “Oh, another tomato.” Not that I still don’t like them – I am not to the “Oh, another tomato I have to eat” phase. Well, maybe I am. Yes, I am. I have been denying it. Odd how the truth comes out when you let your fingers have a moment of keyboard power*:

Stupid, stupid tomatoes that encourage sores in my mouth and diarrhea but I eat them anyway because they make me need, need, need their flavor. Juicy, pulpy tomato freshness . . . ambrosia for a while. Stupid stupid tomatoes

* A related manifestation of the Fist of Death Syndrome.

A lot of us have had a cold here, and I’ve got it now. I also had a toothache, but my dentist feels it may be an old filling going bad, so  Dec. 4th I will get a new one. Fortunately, and knock on wood, it doesn’t hurt of late. Oh, yeah, we also have coughs; I remembered that just now when I coughed and almost sucked my Cold-Eze into my airway. Der Bingle is a big fan of the little lozenges, so we are all using them. He bought them; he handed them to people and just a few minutes ago he dropped a handful on me. So, we suck. (cough, cough)

I have had a couple of sourdough foldovers recently – my own curative measure regarding colds . . . and anything else.

We have also been changing out the airport (Apple system) here at the PBC&R; we’ve hit some snaglets and don’t know when everything will shake out one way or another. For a while the signal was pretty shaky on the porch. Woe, woe was moi. Now we are dealing with speed issues . . . and are not certain if it is a server problem . . . or if there is a zombie computer around.

By the way, we wanted to include a picture of Jake the Hero after his power mission, but he felt some folks interested in his activities (umm, the authorities – police, FBI, CIA, Interpol) didn’t need any help in finding him. So here is a photo of his Scottish relative, aptly named, Scottish Jake.

Here at the PBC&R we have been celebrating the Q having power, although we can’t say we were particularly surprised when Jake – who is known as somewhat crusty, sort-of French and full of zee crazy ideas, walked in about midnight and said he’d parachuted out of a Lear jet.

It seems he recruited the Extension Cord Gang, and using 4by4 vehicles and a 16by16 semi (don’t ask), they strung an extension cord lifeline all the way to Quentin’s. The Gang is driving the vehicles back, but Jake was in a hurry and hitched a ride in a private jet that was going overhead.

Jake has a flair about him, don’tcha know –  A bit of “je ne sais quoi”.

The shift monitoring the Houston Chronicle power reports noted that someone had power on Quentin’s street. We are keeping our fingers crossed.

We have been cleaning and mowing and washing and steam cleaning and  . . .gasp . . . gasp . . . cooking because we simply cannot keep monitoring the internet for signs of electricity at Quentin’s and any good news in general. So we are keeping busy . . . so we don’t lose our collective peanut butter mind! Well, back to the rugs and steam cleaner.