Okay, sometimes things turn out really well. This morning was one of them. But let me set this up:

My mother, Sarah (nicknamed Toots) had a sister – Lucile – some 18 years older than she. Stanley was the brother they shared who was in high school when Mother was born. It was Lucile, by the way, who gave Mother her nickname. Many times I heard the story of how she came in the house and Mother was swaddled and lying in the Morris chair – October 11, 1926.

Lucile married in 1928 but didn’t have a child until 1932 when Freddie – the prettiest baby in LaGrange County –  was born. Then in 1935, Ruby was born. They lived in a little house across the road from Grandma and mother and did not have as many trees, so on hot afternoons, Lucile would bring Freddie and Ruby over for their naps.

Anyway, they went through the Depression together – and during the War, Ruby inherited Mother’s old bike because they weren’t making any then.

That was a long time ago and my mother knew Ruby was coming to a nearby town last evening; Ruby had told her she wanted to come out and sit on the back porch. I talked with Mother this morning and she said she hadn’t heard a word. We hung up and just a couple of minutes later, Ruby came in through the back door.

I think that is great – 2008 or 1942 – Ruby came into her grandma’s house as if there were no such thing as time. The scent of the woodsmoke in the walls, a lot of the same wooden tables, a lot of the same old skillets and silverware. Grandma’s things, her mother’s things, Mother’s things, our things, family.

I don’t know if I believe in Heaven or not, but today I sure hope it is so. It would have so pleased Grandma and my Aunt Lucile to hear that screen door of home opening this morning.

I was out in the driveway with my camera and first I took a picture of the lilac bush over the fence.

And then as I was walking to the street, I turned and snapped the northwestern corner of the house through a flowering tree.

Turning back toward the street, I looked up at the old maple and got another picture.

Now, at this point I turn and look down the sidewalk to see if Summer is coming. Behind me I hear a thwack and when I look, I discover a large limb has fallen out of the tree and landed about six feet from me.

Gee, I remember they said the number one cause of death in the woods of the Midwestern frontier was falling tree branches . . . but this is 2008, Mr. Maple Tree, and I am almost taking this personally.

I’m going to go tell them in at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. Why that limb was as big around as the hulk’s arm. I figure in a couple of years the size of the limb in the telling of this story will be “about half a redwood”.

The tornado in Picher, Oklahoma. Okay, obviously I’m on a Jim Cantore kick here. We have been interested in watching Jim since “back in the day” and one time my son saw him behind a desk and exclaimed, “Look, it’s Jim Cantore in a building!” Now, that was news.

Hey, THIS (and HERE is the actual site page where you can enter a year) is a cool place to visit if you are interested in history. I’ve been sitting here plugging in ancestors’ names and seeing where they fall on the list of popular names for that year. Ida was popular when my great-aunt Ida was born. When I was in high school, there wasn’t one Ida in my whole class. Hey, I forgot to check my name . . . Okay, my name wasn’t popular then; I knew that.* However, the list looks as if it were taken from my class yearbook.

*Around number 500 on the list for girls; close to 600 on the list for boys.

Quentin, you were around 400; and, Robert, you were 5 – but then you were named for your grandpa. Bing, tell your buddy he was, I think, 10.

Well, a couple of the patrons at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, who are actually more family than patrons, have gotten whiff of the little chatter I’ve had going here at The Leaning Cow. I suppose it was unwise of me to provide free wi-fi.

To tell the truth, yes, a couple did get whiff of it – but they didn’t hesitate to share the news with the regulars and it has been interesting around here. And surprising. People have started reminding me of things in their lives – like the funny things their kids or grandkids have done. Or the time the road washed out and the triplet red-headed Grady girls were born just shy of Two Tree Pass on the old Jamison Road. They called in the medic helicopter and the pilot landed in the barley field and took mother and babies to the regional hospital. Dad Grady got through when Dick Smith dirtied up his new Hummer to make his way up the washout to pick him up . . .  Stories like that, dontcha know.

Joan is even talking about getting a new picture of our cow that leans and came right out and said we ought to give her a name. I said I thought her name was the leaning cow  – kind of generic like – but she’s bound and determined to get a committee organized to decide on a name. Of course, that is reassuring to me since the cow will probably be in a heavenly pasture by the time the committee agrees on who’s doing what, let alone a name.

Dustin was sipping his cola and munching his jelly crunch foldover when he wondered if maybe people wouldn’t be able to leave their stuff on their regular tables anymore. I told him I didn’t think he had anything to worry about . . . especially with Friday, our dog who pretty much guards things. Well, he doesn’t so much as guard as remind – bark, bark . . . you’ve left your hat – bark, bark . . . time to pick up the kids from cheerleading, football, basketball, baseball, you-name-it practice – bark, bark – time to jiggle the finicky mechanism on the ice machine.

Which was an issue Susan broached: “If you’re going to be telling what’s going on here at the PBC&R, won’t we get in trouble for having Friday in here? Him being a “dog” and all.” Friday gave her a bit of a look right at this time and she nodded to him and said, “Now, Friday, you know I didn’t mean anything by that.”

We decided that it isn’t going to be a problem because, well, nobody here is actually going to acknowledge seeing him and Friday has agreed to act as if he is unaware of anyone when a stranger pops in. He let us know he’ll be so inconspicuous, people who thought they saw him would think he was a Wednesday.

Some of the folks think I should fancy the place up a bit, but heck, I’m just going to leave things as they are. And that includes the screen door out to the porch. It’s wooden and a little warped and you kind of have to give it a little kick to get it moving. Course, on the other had a good breeze and a strong spring will make it slam loud enough to get your attention and fast enough to hit you in the butt.

And that would be the end of this update.

I found this in a drawer where I keep special things from the past; I can’t remember what the letters stand for, but I’ll bet someone does.

Aha, I watched a movie filmed in the mode of a portable video and did not puke. My eyes, however, feel a little strained. My grandson came out and said a couple of times, “You feel like you’re right there.” Fortunately, I did not and so was not scared out of my gourd. Although the little things that came from the monster quickened my heart and almost brought me to the “looking away” point.

I don’t know if Cameron will ask me what I thought of the ending or not. I hope not because I have trouble when people apply logic to something that is made up. I will tell him that someone thought up the plot and told it and they reached a point where they stopped. He will ask me again about the ending. I know this. He is not big on my suggestion to just make up his own following scenes.

There is always the Just Woke up from a Monster Nightmare final bit. Oh, wait, that is next to the final bit. The final, final bit is when the person is so thankful it was a dream and you see a big monster eye looking in their high rise apartment window behind them.

Yes, yes, yes . . . YES!!!  We just stopped by to check the weather for today – although we can see it is raining – and saw featured Jim Cantore video moments. Woo Hoo. I certainly hope this link stays in service.

GO JIM!!!!!!!!

People who frequent the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse want to weigh in on an upcoming topic two weeks in advance. We do not put plastic flowers on the graves of our loved ones on Memorial Day. Never, ever. Some of us, quite frankly, judge those who do. Maybe we shouldn’t, but still, we think even a handful of wildflowers or a 99¢ geranium is a better way to say, “I remember.”