Well, we walked over to the fair grounds – Alison, Colin, Summer and I – and got ourselves Bayou Billy drinks. I pulled on the tap for Cherry Wine and it sure tasted like grape. But, that’s okay. The weather was hot and the drink iced.
I was charmed by the quilt on the bed in the log house and as we left the attendant thanked me for noticing it – A friend had made it from things of her late mother. The friends and flowers piece was once on her mother’s pillow.
I have figured out that I am the only on who even considers puttering around in the yard and becasue I don’t want to work with unwilling, grumpy workers, I am going to gradually use sand with a weed barrier and mulch to get under bushes and around some spots where I have planted flowers. Another thing: I am only going to plant perennials. Oh, and lots of ground cover – tons of it. I feel somewhat mature not to have become so disgusted that I despaired of the future and stuck a flamingo front and center . . . and a gnome up by the door.
Is there such a thing as a “trailer lawn”? Sorry, it just popped out . . . I think it was the gnome.
I went over today to check on our tomatoes in Mr. Feller’s garden and they are coming along, as are the beans Alison planted. Mrs. Feller was asking me about the daylilies at the northwest corner of the house and I couldn’t recall seeing them at all; I just remembered some carnation-looking rosey pink flowers. But today they were putting on a show and I got a picture.
And another one:
Yes, I just looked at the schedule and he Bayou Billy is coming to the Apple Festival October 4-5. Yes, cherry wine for AmeliaJake. And guess what? He’s here at the fair this week, too! More later when I can settle down.
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October 4-5, 2008 KENDALLVILLE APPLE FESTIVAL KENDALLVILLE, IN |
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Sometimes I will talk with someone who is active in a lot of community things and wonder why? Really, isn’t life too short to be caught up the slings and arrows of being on a school board or town council or head of a festival. Of course, I guess I am glad someone does it. Then there are the social committees and the groups of good works. I don’t do that. It doesn’t sound interesting to me . . . Is it interesting to others or are they doing things of duty that they really would rather not have to do?
Well, we are who we are.
RIGHT HERE is a little internet article about handling snakes at church services. Actually, it is not a feature story – it is just a short bit on a pastor being arrested and a husband and wife being bitten. My opinion, as I have stated before, is that gummi worms would be a more sensible thing to do.
Oh, by the way, did you know National Gummi Worm Day is July 15. We must prepare. Oh, thinking of decorating for Gummi Worm Day can lead you to some strange thoughts . . .
Picture courtesy of the Granite State Candy Shoppe & Ice Cream.
I went to see a neighbor/friend at the nursing home yesterday – just a quick stop by visit – and when I got to the room she shares with her husband, only he was there, napping by the window. A staff member suggested I check the room in which they were playing Bingo and she was there . . . so I joined her and played some myself.
As I sat there watching my cards and looking at the people in the room, I admit I felt a foreboding. They were no longer many decades older than I – as had been the case in infrequent visits to nursing homes throughout a good deal of my life. I was catching up. The thought occurred to me: I am playing Bingo at the home.
I recognized the potential for the humorous shock value of that statement when announced to family members. And I went home and walked in and stared at people and said, “I played Bingo at the home.” And I told them about how I needed only one number, I-23, to win the “cover all the numbers” finale. I told them a lady in a wheelchair with oxygen had turned out to be the winner and that my first instinct was to yell, “Cheater, cheater,” and rip her oxygen away. Not a nice impulse, but one pretty compatible with my personality.
As I played with the elderly, I found myself watching the number caller – a twenty-something staff member – and thinking, “Oh, you young whippersnapper, I’ll bet you can’t wait to get out of here with all these old people – I’ll bet it’s like getting out of prison and maybe you tell funny stories about things.” She was many decades younger than I.
Actually, in the back of my decades-older mind, I was thinking myself that I would be so grateful to get out of there myself and scurry back to my house, my things, my freedom, my time left of doing for myself and walking quickly without help. As I left the room, reaching the door before the women in wheelchairs and with walkers, I wondered if they were thinking, “Ha, you’ll be here soon – You’re getting pretty far up there yourself, you know.”
It was scary; it is scary. I played Bingo at the home. It’s coming.
Well, knock on wood, I fixed a G4 ibook – put in a new DC board. I had to say so – just had to. The first time I tried I was too timid and didn’t push the connector in securely, so I opened it back up and pushed and put it back together and it worked.
Belly up to the bar, folks, the foldovers are on the house.
This morning I woke up and found myself making a foldover immediately; I wandered onto the porch with it, along with a soda and then hurried back to make another one. I wolfed both of them; there was no counting of the chews. (See, sometimes we chew for 35 times before swallowing – pudding can be tough – and I instruct that chewing more means eating less. This is mostly done in fun, but I guess I could could comprise between gulp and 35.)
Okay, I’ve peanut butter sandwiched myself and now must decide if I am going to take the chore route, the dynamic route of enthusiastic cleaning and spiffing up the place . . . or the meandering path of morning puzzles in the paper, some checking on Internet news. I could just pull an afghan over my head and look out through the holes.
I wonder what I would do if I were at a beach resort? Go for a long walk at the surf line, winding up with wet shorts and probably sunburnt feet? Sit on the beach and look at the ocean, getting up intermittently to cool off in the surf? Sit up on the balcony of a coffee shop drinking a diet cola and watching the ocean, then wandering across the sand to the surf? Oh, the pressure of the decision-making process.
I must think about this . . . lower the Afghan Cone of Rumination, please.