Right now, as I look out the windows to the west and north, I see blue sky and sunlight on the greenery. I like that. I like the sun at his angle . . . I think I’ve said that before. These are the days and mornings I wish would last forever.

But, then, anyone looking at me would see a round-faced occidental geisha in T-shirt (although it says – in embroidery, “San Diego” and has a classic “woody” on it) and cargo shorts, for I am letting the white creamy facial cleanser slowly seep into my pores and do its work. I don’t mind the tingly feeling, but I think when people see me unexpectedly they feel a tingle down their spine. No one seems to get used to it. Once I opened the door, forgetting it was on my face.

What is really effective it so be active while it is on my face and the pores open up with the heat and the chemicals mix with my perspiration. I’ve said this before, but no one has listened to me. Well, it’s their loss. I, and I alone, will be the delightfully lovely one here.

A rabbit, I think, ate one of my newly planted perennials so I am going to put in more day lilies. They leave them alone. Today I need to put my supports over the tomatoes and call and order a dumpster. Yes, it is throw things out time. I must declutter. But is so hard – I might need those old coke bottle telephone pole insulators. Oh, and not my old New Yorkers . . . nor my collection of pieces of bricks from buildings long torn down . . . nor my dish of broken little wooden Christmas ornaments who are in the hospital for broken legs and arms and missing beards. Nor my rocks from Lake Michigan, nor my Pacific Beach sand, nor my menus I collected from various places. Not the huge pile of afghans –

And no, no, don’t take my pile of cute bears that convinced me to pick them up at Goodwill because their little faces said to me they were real and not just material and stuffing.

I may need a shotgun.

I was kind of down all day, even though the weather was fine – blue skies and temperatures in the low 70’s. Then about 7 pm, I just gave it up and stretched out and felt sorry for myself. I guess I dozed; I stirred myself long enough to call my mother and do the night check in thing. Then I decided I’d watch or a just a minute of so of TV, but “no usable signal” showed on the screen. Rats.

On my belly, with a flash light and duct tape, I made a temporary fix on the connection point behind the rocker in the corner – the corner where I had piled a lot of stuff. And I watched the last 50 minutes of Ax Men.

It was the aftermath of one of the Oregon storms and crews couldn’t get to sites, equipment was stranded, homes were flooded, bridges were out, roads were out . . . loggers cut fallen trees and the road bulldozer pushed them aside. I watched people carrying out rugs and padding saturated with water; I watched them salvage baseball trophies and pictures. I saw them lose a lot. I saw them lose jobs with only the clothes on their backs.

Makes me feel real bad about my personal sulking. But do not fear, I am accomplished at it – professional status. You can’t take the pout out of sulker easily, but I do feel kind of not cool about it tonight. Almost enough to kick my butt into action tomorrow.

Heck, those guys out there were working to get to work. I need to shape up. it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to trust me with a chainsaw though. I’m not that stable.

After I came back from taking Alison to work this morning, I sat down to check the headlines and do some reading. And then I thought that gee, my eyes were tired and it felt so good when they closed. So, I set aside the computer, left my book on the table and snuggled down under an afghan. I didn’t sleep, but it felt so good just to rest there and let nature take its course. As it turned out, I did not drift off to sleep, but listened to the birds and the silence in the house.

I knew sounds would come soon enough; it has been a long time since I have been alone in a house. I think the time I spent in Pacific Beach qualifies only in the sense that when Der Bingle’s friend was at work, I just had myself to account for. But always in my mind was the draw of the beach and just the feel of getting out and being in Southern California.

Now, Georgia was different. He would leave and I would wander through the rooms – once I ate a can of green beans and a can of spinach, because he was on a low vitamin K diet and they were just in the pantry, ignored with little hurt vegetable feelings. I won’t say that I felt all that intestinally great after having consumed them, but it was a one-time thing. There was no place really calling to me and the apartment is nice, with cathedral ceilings and lots of fans, many windows of daylight and comfy leather sofas and chairs . . . and Turner Classic Movies and a nice porch. Lots of books – internet service – a jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table in the sunroom. Sodas in the refrigerator and peanut butter in the cabinet.

But back to here, back to this morning. The first hint of alien life was a soft, “Grandma?” from the french doors. I looked up and there was Miss Sleepy Eyes Two slumped in the wicker chair, so I invited her to take the other end of the long sofa . . . and she did. Sydney settled on the floor beside us and we rested for quite a little while. Sunday morning, soft and gentle.

Pottermom picked a hundred pounds of peaches; if I remember correctly, her daughter helped. They took a picture of some of them and she’s planning on doing canning. I’m not one for canning – or cooking really – but I like the way those peaches look in the boxes against the color of the wall behind.

So I stared at it for awhile. I started thinking about how I like peaches, but it was a flavor I had to come at in stages. First I liked the cold, slick peaches that were presented to me in sryup. I shied away from the fresh ones – they had recently had fuzz on them, dontcha know. My father loved them – by themselves, with cottage cheese (yuck), in pies . . . Peaches and the scent of them make me think of him, but for more reasons than just his taste for them.

We have a family story about peaches; I grew up with it. And I grew up sleeping when I was in Kingman either beneath the picture of my great-grandfather in his Civil War uniform . . . or under the picture of my grandfather’s brother Roy who died as a young boy – 12, actually. And in the lore of the story, he died after eating too many peaches, fuzz and all, from one of the trees. My grandfather was under five at the time and he remembered Roy couldn’t lie down and was in the chair in the living room when he went to bed. When he woke up, he found out Roy had died.

Roy might have been a passing family story, but what gave it super status was my cousin Robert Allen’s reaction to his picture. You see, Robert Allen is about five or six years older than I and when he was little he spent a great deal of time with my paternal grandparents who were, yes, his maternal grandparents. He was at their house a lot as a boy, actually living with them for periods of time and during summers.

Thing was, Robert Allen was terrified by Roy’s picture and they had to turn it so Roy was looking at the wall. My father kept this “Roy thing with the picture” going for some time – well, like forever . . . and apparently I am keeping it alive as well.

Heck, I added my own chapter to it:

When my grandfather died, I was a freshman in college and my cousin Lana, who is Robert Allen’s sister, was a high school senior. She was also afraid of Roy’s picture. Well, the night before the funeral, Lana and I slept together in the double bed in the room where Roy was on the wall. While she was off brushing her teeth, I got this great idea to take Roy’s picture and put it under the covers on her side of the bed. I envisioned her coming in and pulling back the blanket and sheet and – gasp – seeing Roy.

It started to work out that way; she was headed toward the bed . . . her hand was on the sheet. My father appeared in the doorway to say goodnight; Lana turned to look at him and sat down on the bed. She sat on Roy before I could do anything to stop her . . . and she cracked the glass on Roy’s picture. She shrieked; my grandmother called up; my father told her everything was okay. I felt stupid.

I don’t know where Roy’s picture is now; I think I might be a little afraid of it myself now. I don’t think about it as a rule.

Yankee Candle made for a time a candle scent called Macintosh & Peach; I loved it. It gave the kitchen a true feel of comfort and home and freshness. It made me think of my dad. They have discontinued the scent, but I still have a few left and I have taken to lighting a macintosh candle and a peach candle . . . or melting two of the tarts together.

Ah, this story is winding down and I don’t know where to go with it: peaches, Roy, my dad, peaches, candles. I guess I don’t have to go anywhere; it doesn’t end, it just wafts in the air and waits for me to remember it from the beginning again.

Harrison Ford has inspired me after all. I must exercise so that people can say, “Hey, she’s pretty spry for an old lady.” Not that anyone needs to say it – I just want to be able to think it truthfully. So along with my facial exercises, I am trying to regain a waistline.

What’s hard for me is that I have always had youthful-looking skin and now wrinkles and creases are developing exponentially. It is a little scary when I wonder what is going on inside with my organs, but I’m not thinking about that now. Now I’m still on skin.

I’ve used Estee Lauder since I was 25 and a lot of people – salesladies at the counter actually – believe that is why my skin has looked good. Personally, I think it is because of my paternal grandmother’s genes. Her name was Nellie; my maternal grandmother Jessie had skin that looked like tissue paper which had been crumpled up and then smoothed out. Put I’m not going to rock any boats and so I am still using the Lauder stuff. The little moisturizer jars last forever and I could be more liberal, I guess, because I find that after five or six months, the stuff separates like old mayonnaise. Of course, with my new wrinkle outbreak, I suppose I will be slathering the stuff on.

I’m skipping any talk of hair on my upper lip and chin – just can’t bear it right now. (Afraid someone will throw me off the train.)

I also have had vitiligo – white spots – since I can remember. They were on my ankles and knees first and stayed there for several decades. Now they are on my hands and torso and I can see the hint of them coming around my mouth. That’s not good, but it shouldn’t kill me. However, it should be fairly obvious since I have – and let me refer to the consensus at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse – a big mouth figuratively and literally.

The tomatoes have nothing to do with my age and looks; it’s just that we are going to plant them today. It’s late, but we have had threats of frost unseasonably far into the month this year . . . so here we are at the 29th. I love tomatoes so much I slice them and lay them right on my tongue. I also love the smell of the vines on my hands. That I got from my Grandmother Jessie.

Okay, so Harrison Ford is a few years older than I and he’s playing Indiana Jones again. So I think, oh, that’s going to be sad and they should have left it alone. Then I think well, he’s doing stunts and practicing with the whip and this might be inspiring.

I liked the movie; I enjoyed the movie. I’m not going to talk plot or anything . . . except to say that he didn’t appear as young as I thought he was going to. One other thing, all the way through the movie I couldn’t rid myself of the idea of “old man pants” – as in the way they fitted. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, but, yeah, I personally can’t get away from it – old man pants.