Last night, I knew Christine was going to be on TV and when I finished reading my book and talking to my mother (see below) on the phone, I turned on AMC and watched the latter part of it. I didn’t think the car – Christine – was so spooky, in fact, I liked the way it repaired itself. I did think the actor playing Arnie was a bit on the scary side; he made me feel very uncomfortable, more villain than victim. Anyway, it ended up and I started thinking, “Where is that copy of the book?”

Then I went to sleep . . . and I dreamed: long, relentless, slow-paced events that centered on my getting in and out of the little green car (RIP). I had a little kid with me I had to keep track of and the car seemed but together oddly, giving me the feeling that any moment I would not be able to understand how to drive it.

I remember, toward the end of the dream, picking up screws off the floor at a Wal-Mart; were they mine that had fallen out of my head, having been loose for so long?

Waking was not an easy task; I had to talk myself into reality. I really dislike that type of dreaming; where are the dreams of beaches and convertibles? Well, it would be a bummer waking up from them as well.

I am one of those people who reads – a lot; fortunately for me, when they talk of addictions they don’t call readers addicts – they call them bookworms. I have learned to adapt my reading to what is going on around me after all these years, but sometimes I revert to my primal state. Tonight was one of those times. After several questions from my grandson, I asked loudly, “Can’t you see I am READING?”

That brings my granddaughter out to where I am to quote what I said to her the night before: “If you can’t ignore people talking, you are not a good reader.” And, of course, I had to answer that there is a difference between people talking and being asked a direct question. But then, to her anything her brother asks is not worthy of note and I am wrong not to ignore him as well

So, I get them off my back . . . and then I get a phone call. Okay, fine, we’re talking, talking, talking and then that call is over and I settle in. I always call my mother in the evening to make certain she is all right; tonight she called me and after a while I told her I was reading, almost to the end of the book. Finally, finally she gets off the line.

Then 30 minutes later the phone goes off on the table, playing Honky Tonk Blues and vibrating against the wood. And I knew. I really, really knew. I answered with a gritted out hello and I heard, “Did you finish your book and then . . . and this is from a notoriously grouchy lady . . . laughter.

This is that lady, in case you don’t remember:

Westminster Village “A Community of Friends, A Great Place to Retire“

I used to live there.

Yes, I did. It was in 1973 and 1974 and it was then Blytheville Air Force Base. Later, the name was changed to Eaker. Then in the 90’s it closed and I believe the housing area was unoccupied for an extended period of time. Now it is a retirement community.

Most memorable was the Lawn Police who patrolled on Tuesday and if your lawn wasn’t up to par, issued you some sort of citation. We moved in and went to buy a lawn mower and when we returned, we found the lawn police had left us one of their calling cards. I heard tell that the captain who lived across the street from us and was from Cape Girardeau (Rush Limbaugh territory) ran after the truck, tearing up the ticket and dropping it on the street.

Here is my floor plan from those days: HERE

Although, I think they moved the stove and door location in the kitchen.

I must say that I wonder if any of the people living there now were there when they were in the service.

Oh, by the way, that branch is from the blue spruce, broken off by the wind and ice. I’ll pull it away, sooner or later.

Just so many leaves and so many branches and mud, mud and mud.

Will we ever get this cleaned up so we can lounge here again.

Sydney wanted his own earthquake post.

They had an earthquake this morning in some 130+ miles east of St. Louis – a 5.4 or 5.5 (now being listed as a 5.2) and I didn’t feel it. Although some news reports said it was felt as far north as southern Michigan and that building’s in Chicago’s Loop swayed, I DIDN’T FEEL IT.

I was awake, but stretched out on the sofa, thinking should I doze or keep reading. At one point the dog jumped down, turned around and stuck his nose in my face – maybe it was the earthquake, but I assumed he wanted a dog biscuit to add to his collection. Later I saw the breaking news story, but didn’t say anything to anyone in the house. My daughter-in-law just now caught a snatch of the story on TV and exclaimed, “Oh, my gosh, I felt it!”

She’s a nurse and she said, “I knew I wasn’t having a seizure because I was alert.” Okay. Well, I missed it. I can’t remember even being vibrated on a cushion sensation. Nothing, Zilch. Even the over-piled coffee table by my usual sitting spot remained unchanged.

Wait a minute . . . you know how police go over and over the questioning of a subject . . . I think I was aware of it; I remember thinking, that, gee the dog is vibrating against my legs.

So maybe I did feel an earthquake, but I had to figure it out . . . maybe it is a false memory. Perhaps if I keep thinking about it, I will suddenly remember being shaken onto the floor as the ceiling fan swayed menacingly above me.

It couldn’t have been too much, though, because I was not aware of my body’s extra weight feeling like a bowl full of jelly .

I don’t mean cubicles in your home; if push comes to shove, we can always take over a bathroom and stick a towel in our mouths to muffle sobs. I am talking about little soundproof, curtained or shuttered booths located in public places where we can stick in our rental quarters and have a place to just let our faces screw up and tears run down our checks . . . and out of our noses. Places where we can do the sobbing thing punctuated with snuffled massive intakes of air.

There are times when people are going through a difficult time or have an ongoing problem with which they cope for extended periods of time – sometimes years. And they really, really try to do the best they can, to find out all the things they can do to help the situation.

Often, it is only on a walk with the breeze swirling about your cheeks, tugging at your hair that you feel safe to think of that sadness outside of your home. Or maybe driving alone – and then, though, the road seems too short – you need more time to ease things back down before you come to your destination.

But what is really the worse unnecessary part of your world not being typical or something being especially painful has to do with people in jobs that are designed to help you, but they themselves are not in personalities that match the jobs. For all that you have tried, for all that you have grieved, there some of them are, sitting in offices and making judgments. Not listening to someone who has intimate knowledge of the situation, but assuming you are useless and incompetent and here’s the winner – bad and somehow responsible for the whole blasted thing.

You want to say, “You pompous, sanctimonious jerk, just shut up.” But that would just be egging them on because they have no idea that, hey, maybe they should consider the possibility that they have no idea what stresses are involved. They cannot entertain the thought that maybe, given a similar circumstance, they might have been blown away like kleenex in a wind.

You know this; you know that there are some people who feed off of being a paid voyeur and metaphorical Simon of American Idol and are in jobs that are supposed to provide help to people. You know that these “bad apples” are probably compensating for being bullied or ridiculed themselves. You know this.

You know this and still the situation hurts; still you are reduced to tears. The sobs come.

So I’m advocating crying booths . . . places where nature’s stress reliever can do its work. Where you can dry your eyes and just say, “Fie on them.”

I had this little fascination with the Waurika Rattlesnake Round-up, which was last weekend. And I expressed some thoughts about it and the Writers Workshop that was held the same weekend. But, of course, when it comes to rattlesnakes, I am here in northern Indiana, and just not within in easy traveling distance of the Waurika.

But I wondered: How did it go? According to the Waurika hometown paper, it was a big success and the concession stand actually could have sold twice as much snake snacks. And I guess no one was bitten.

I am thinking, though, of having a gummy worm round-up.

I wrote about this comic strip and these two guys a few days ago. Sunday, maybe? I don’t think I made this statement then: “The Argyle Sweater is funny.” I should have, because it is. At the time I was caught up in the idea that The Argyle Sweater, which for some reason I want to call The Argyle Sock, closely resembled The Far Side by Gary Larson.

Well, what is wrong with that? Nothing. Some critics have made the point that Hilburn occasionally has a joke that is similar to one Larson made; okay, are they implying that once an original thought occurs, no one can have an idea like that, even if they express it well, even if they make you . . . smile?

Gee, scientists, you can’t do gravity – Newton did it. Or how about this: A guy or gal has a brain tumor and a really good surgeon is able to delve deep and remove it and have the patient recover and be pretty normal. Do you send him away because he is doing something like an earlier surgeon did? Of course not. He can get the job done.

The Argyle Sweater gets the job done; Hilburn courts humor and lets it manifest itself in that off the wall way Larson did. Great, because for one thing, Larson isn’t doing it anymore in a daily strip. Personally, I like to have my brain regularly tickled by takes on situations that are far beyond knock-knock jokes; we should all utter a collective “Thank You, Mr. Hilburn, for showing us the thoughts you have when you let your mind hear a different drummer . . . well, in cases like this, maybe a different tuba.”

Oom, Oom Pah . . . Pah, Pah, Oom . . .

Oh, that’s sort of a complicated collective thought – so let’s just make the “Thank You” collective and you can customize the elaboration.

Well, I got it from Redbox and right off the bat there is a really graphic sex scene, so had I been watching it with my mother, it would have ended right there. I don’t want to give anything away here, but feel compelled to say the plot just keeps on hammering the leading character and does a number on the others as well. Several activities, for lack of a better word, were kind of out there without background, other than what I surmised. I watched it once; I don’t think I would watch it again.

Oh, yeah, the main character has a big stomach paunch.