Well, I clicked over to The Argyle Sweater – I don’t get the strip in my northern Indiana newspaper – and saw this cow, the one RIGHT HERE.
I see this link changed with the day and when I specified 5/21, it connected. BUT -I think soon it will be unavailable so . . . I copied it.
I was just stretched out on the sofa in a little nap adventure when I decided to reach over and grab something on the coffee table. I didn’t fall off but my center of gravity shifted enough that I was tilted on the edge in a precarious balance. Now, instead of scooting back over, I thought I’m too lazy to move and I’ll just experiment with lying here. So I did and, you know what, I did not slip or slowly lean farther into a pre-falling position. It was as if I had velcro holding me right in place.
So then I start thinking about mountain climbers who rig hammocks and maybe a little tent-like wind protection on the sheer wall of the mountain, cliff, whatever you want to call it. “Place for potential falling” would be my name for it if I were an Indian and inclined to name things by description.
I imagined hanging in my hammock on a mountain – they do come with hammock belts, don’t they? – and snuggling down in my downy sleeping bag. I would just pretend I were not hanging from a mountain. That plan has flaws down the road, such as, well, getting down – or up if I were still summit-bound.
I would not have any idea of going higher, because the only way I would be in that position were if some crazy guy read a crazy kidnap & hang someone on a mountain plot script and grabbed an old lady – me – and put me there. The odds of that are long. That’s good; I’ve had enough adventure for the day already – teetering on the sofa as I did.
Thinking about how strong emotions can be – almost unbearable at times, and for some people, perhaps just plain unbearable – and then thinking about how small we are in the world, I can snatch a glimpse of how powerful energy is. Sometimes emotion feels like the whole universe, as if there is nothing but feeling everywhere. And all of us like that together . . . well, gee.
Thursday we go to Kingman to put flowers on my father’s grave for Memorial Day. The we is my mother and I; this is our ninth year. To tell the truth, I would prefer to go alone – to buckle the pot in the backseat and just drive down by myself. I think my mother goes out of duty, kind of like notching each trip on a tree. We get there; we put the flowers out; I take pictures; she says well no need to stay; we leave.
I’d like to stay awhile, by myself, free to cry.
LettuceHead. Yes, the name just came to me. But LettuceHead is a real person; I have heard about her and I’m fairly certain I have passed by her in a doorway as I went out and she came in. I want to blurt out my opinion of her, but that would be bad, both the blurting and the opinion. So I won’t. But this can be pulled out of me, given the way she treats a very nice lady: LettuceHead . . . is . . . a . . . jerk. Fortunately she doesn’t live in this state, or I would be so tempted to make cole slaw out of her. Ah, but then, I should call her CabbageHead.
I was reading through some articles about the price of gas and how it has impacted people’s lives when I wandered into the business section and found this article – this one RIGHT HERE. This is the first thing you’ll see:
Well, first off, I have always had this love affair with Montana, but then I feel that way about Seattle and the Oregon Coast and, in fact, the entire West Coast. I am torn. Since I don’t have the money to live such places, making a decision is not a pressing matter for me. I can build two or three houses in my imagination and plop them down in whatever setting calls me at the moment.
But, concentrating on Montana and the ranching thing, I have to say this headline made me think of The Pioneer Woman on the Internet and her lodge remodeling for first, the introducing of Thatcher to some ladies who will stay there for awhile, learning about being a rancher wife . . . and maybe end up being Thatcher’s wife. Second, the lodge can be used for cooking workshops, photoshop workshops, ranching workshops(?) and maybe bed & breakfast guests.
She has a segment in which her readers are providing input as to how the lodge should be redone, as well as following the progress. I think it’s up to the front porch part now.
This fellow in Montana has the problem of really rich people buying ranches that neighbor his, which actually adds to his working ranch expense. So, to help out financially, he is hosting groups at his bunkhouse. Depending on the season, they can participate – or not – in ranching chores. Here’s a picture of his ranch house from the site – it’s a little different from the lodge.
That’s Jami Jarrett Moody on horseback (Big ‘Nuf) and her dad and ranch owner Rick Jarrett.
The dog is named Maddy.
The Pioneer Woman calls her husband Marlboro Man and he is right good lookin’; Rick, here, seems more the speed of a lot of Americans. Gotta love the hat; it looks like it has been around some – course, then, so does Rick. His family has been working the ranch since the late 1880’s and he’s fifth-generation at The Crazy Mountain Cattle Company.
I mean that literally, the seeing myself differently title. What started out as something I pushed into the back of my mind and pretended was other than it was is now front and center – in my mind and in photos. I have been taking my own picture a lot, because when I started joking around with the bathroom mirror thing, it slowly dawned on me how I really looked. Close-set eyes. Big crooked mouth. Big crooked grin. And when I pull the towel off my head – little flat hair.
You see, I kind of had this picture of myself in my head from when I would glance in the mirror during summer session at IU when I worked at McNutt’s dining hall and checked numbers at breakfast. I was, oh, let’s say about 19 and all that close-set crookedness didn’t seem as noticeable. (Oddly enough, my soup can body accentuates it now.)
I just defined myself all those years as AmeliaJake – feisty, quirky, not very nice and always ready for a “What if I just pushed this button?” or “Well, we could fix that with duct tape” comment. AmeliaJake, who used to tear down the hill on her bike to get to Russian history class down by the old law quadrangle. I had the route down to a science. Of course to make it, I had to keep my little canary yellow uniform on – although I did take the checked apron off.
AmeliaJake, who gave Raggedy Ann’s and Andy’s unique personalities. AmeliaJake who used to do jumping jacks to burn of excess energy. AmeliaJake, who could throw a mean temper tantrum. I was never so dumb as to use the hold your breath ’til you pass out technique. That is so self-defeating; now the person who thought that up didn’t think it through.
Over the years, I started actively avoiding having my picture taken and when one showed up in a digital form, I would put the little mickey mouse gloved hand on it and drag it right over to the trash. A couple of times, in souvenir photos for instance, I would be stuck with my image and slide it in a drawer somewhere. I think mentally I just threw my hands up in front of my face and exclaimed, “Ack! Ack! Ack!
But once I did the bathroom experiment, I realized I was going to have to come to terms with this soup can AmeliaJake. I’m not saying I like it, but I don’t figure there is anyway around it. Rats, where is time travel when you need it?
I am starting to see myself in my mind’s eye as I really am and when I think about it, I feel like maybe I should slip into the shadows and turn away from people. But, most of the time, I forget and I am still . . . AmeliaJake.
Yes, this is the morning after the night I said I thought I might want to punch faces. I’m so glad I didn’t – I’m not in jail now – or out on bail being shunned by my family. But, then, I probably wouldn’t be here with them . . . and their punched faces. I would probably be at Mother’s and she doesn’t have Internet service because she lives OUT IN THE COUNTRY, dontcha know. She would be mad at me for winding up in jail. So, yes, I am really glad there was no face punching. I will hold this experience close to my heart as a lesson learned.
Will someone help me up? I fell on the floor laughing at that last little bit about close to my heart and learning. Believe me, that is not me.
I am in a bad mood and I am not apologizing for it. I told someone I felt like punching faces; I don’t believe that is accurate. I just want to have someone come in to pack up my things, put my mother into suspended animation so she will not worry about anything and then go off to a new life. If anyone were to miss me, let my memory be erased from their minds. Ah, it is coming back to me – this is my runaway mantra. Actually, I usually run away inside my head . . . to my quiet house, my quiet, quiet house. The one on the coast, with the big windows and the fireplace . . . and the cook and housekeeper . . . and the tons and tons of dollars in the double secret safe in the cellar.
Well, I didn’t know if it would rain or not rain today and so I put off fence painting and went over and cut Mrs. Feller’s rhubarb. We went into her kitchen and used her recipe and made lots of rhubarb sauce. Oh, gosh, it smelled so good cooking and tasted great when sampled.
Here’s Kathryn in our chopping frenzy.
The rhubarb starting to cook on Kathryn’s stove.
The rhubarb cooked down to sauce.
