I was up ’til one this morning, trying to get something to work between Google and me. I didn’t get it working, but I figured out exactly what was broken, which is an accomplishment for this little cookie from the slide rule generation. (I remember I was really pleased to have a “round” slide rule to carry in my purse. Wonder where it is now?)

I overslept and woke thinking, “What if my heart stops today?” I thought about pulling the blanket up over my head. But I got up and hollered – yes, hollered and I do hate the yelling from room to room thing. Got Cameron dropped off at school and waved at Summer and Alison – our resident sickies – misplaced and found my mini-recorder, stuffed extra batteries in my vest and headed out the door. Then I came back in for the keys.

Called Mother from the car and told her I’d call again later.

Then the old, old diesel and I trundled on down the road . . . and it was sunny.

I had a great time at the construction site. The guy from the energy agency, the vocational instructor, learning so many new things about special ways to do basement walls and something called “sip” walls and recessed ceiling lights that have the potential to be big heat losers.

I liked the instructor; he was one of those fellows I could drive across the country with and not feel as if we had to cut the car in half or flip a coin to see who got killed between here and California. The kids were great; I like good kids – really like them. At one point I said, climbing up and over a big, big stack of plywood, “Hey, I’m sixty guys, give me a hand.” I lied; I’m 59. I had to laugh; when I tell my age to most, a lot exclaim that I can’t be that old (which, of course, is why I mention it in the first place). When you’re dealing with high school juniors and seniors, they don’t react like that. You’re old. Oh, yeah.

I told the instructor the hour I spent there had made my day – that I’d be upbeat all day. So far, so good – even if I can’t tweak the template to get Google to see what I want it to see for a few hours.

Sydney and I even went out to the fairgrounds and he got to run and sniff, sniff, sniff.

The wind switched over and was coming from the north, however, and I took shelter from the gusts on the south side of the log cabin, looking down toward the grandstand, a view that was always so pleasing until the ancient structure burned down. The new one is metal and safer, but it doesn’t tug at my emotions the way the old wooden white one did.

Floral Hall is always a good link from the past to me to the future. I’m sure it leans to the north, but they tell me it’s solid. At the fair, it’s home to quilts and local history; flowers and canned goods are there too, but the display is pretty small, compared to the days of my childhood when I was taught to scrape the paraffin off the top of the jelly and jam my grandma made.

Tonight it gets colder; tomorrow it snows. Well, that’s okay.

” . . . woke thinking, “What is my heart stops today?” Okay, so I’ve got my ups and downs.

I am a slug; I could ask myself how much I can learn about alternate heating methods before 8:45 tomorrow morning, but I will come around to telling myself I will learn more if I go into it “cold” – hahahahahahahhahahahaha. I will miss what they are telling me because I am so intent on affirming what I think I already know – hahhhhhaaaaahahaahaaa. I’m a quick study – more hahaha-ing. And so forth.

This is not working; I thought I could reverse psychology myself into wanting to research the topic. Sort of a STAND BACK FOLKS AND WATCH THE AMAZING AMOEBA ABSORB perform. I’d have a cape and maybe a letter on the chest of my suit. But it’s not working.

I don’t want to do this – period. Well, actually, I will like it when I’m there – climbing over construction and talking to the high school workers. Ah, what should I wear so I don’t look like a dumpy old grandma? See, my mind isn’t on the subject.

My L.L.Bean boots, jeans, my adapted camper/hiker safari Banana Republic vest for my gear . . . and my barn coat? Oh, what shirt? Red is my best color, but how about the burnt orange/blue plaid one?

This is ridiculous; have I caught myself trying to re-invent said self? Lot of question marks here; that’s because I want to have a party and everyone here is either sick or gloomy; I could watch Atonement again – that would dampen my SNL mood. Oh, yes, let’s all make our way through this non-linear plot only to hear Vanessa Redgrave announce a sort of never mind.

Okay, geo-thermal heating – maybe I will google you.

You are aware of the snow globes that make such lovely winter scenes. I think I  live in a rain globe – as if someone put me in a recycling fountain and put a ball of glass around me and my fountain. Probably there is a wooden base down there, maybe with a little wind up switch that sets some song playing.

I just looked on itunes and a search for “rain” yields the full 150 choices; as does  one for “raindrop”  – and both have some selections marked “explicit” in red. I don’t want to know anything about this. No red stuff – no.

Ah, but wait, all is not lost – I see itunes thinks I may have erred in my spelling – they are listing under the artist category a group called “Reindeer Section” . . .  Unfortunately, I could not leave it with those three dots; I clicked on the group which is Alternative and found the album, “Y’all Get Scared Now, Ya Hear” from 2001. And, they also have a follow-up album – “Son of Evil Reindeer.”

They are a Scottish group and YES, one of their songs is “Raindrop” so I guess I see the itunes logic. No, they aren’t a Scottish group; they are a group of musicians from Scottish groups. I wish I could copy the album review here, but maybe I’ve gone far enough – or too far already.

I know; I’ll have my rain globe play “You Are My Sunshine.”

This goes back some years, but it sticks with me. I think I was sitting at one of the tables writing with a pencil; I’m sure I didn’t have a laptop then. It was common for me to make myself comfortable in the booth at the northwest window and pull some sheets of legal pad out of my pocket. There were always quite a few pencils lying around; I’d grab one and just start jotting down some thoughts. It wasn’t that easy, though, for I was never one to do a rough draft – it was kind of write it once and be done with it.

That would leave me sitting there just thinking a lot of the time or reading over what I had written in my head, listening for the rhythm of it. Or I would read the brand name on the pencils; mostly they were Ticonderogas and I would start thinking about Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys. I was always fond of them – I think because they were rugged New Englanders. Or maybe the scenery had been attractive in the history book pictures. Once I came upon a Wallace Invader . . . took me years to realize it was named for William Wallace of Scottish fame (Braveheart).

This one day in the early fall – it was warm enough only the screen door separated the inside from the porch  – a lady I’d seen just enough to exchange pleasantries with at the local secondhand bookstore, came up and put her packages down by one of the rockers.

She was probably around 70, actually, probably on the plus side of it. I think the warmth of the day had caught her a little unawares and she went over to the chest pop machine that would eventually be hunkered down for winter, but still had plenty of sodas hanging by the neck in the slots that ran above the ice.

I got up and went out, got myself a drink and sat down in the chair next to hers. Started asking her about books and this and that and then I don’t know what happened but we were talking about the night her husband died. He had been working late and got home after the kids were asleep. He went into their room to kiss them goodnight and she said, “I heard something make a thud.”

She went in and there he was on the floor. It was before 911 – the time of her memory, not our talk – and I don’t remember who she called – an ambulance service . . . or maybe she called their doctor and he sent an ambulance. Yes, I think that was it. This has been a long time and I realize I have forgotten a lot of the details. They were overshadowed, I will tell you, by my memory of what she then told me.

She was in the waiting room at the ER and she heard someone say “DOA” and she knew. I can see her face telling me that.  Her minister came and drove her home and I guess he left. The kids were old enough they could stay alone; when she got home, they were waiting and she said she told him their dad was dead. She said to me, “We sat there on the sofa waiting for it to get light so we could call people.”

My God, to wait alone like that with two children – just the three of you in the night. I would have been calling everyone; I would not have cared who I awoke. I would have needed. I suppose a lot of things could be the predicate in that sentence. but it would have been the verb that cut. Yes, I would have needed. I would not have had the steel in my backbone.

We got off the subject somehow and talked a little more. She got up to leave and then came back and said, “I don’t know why I told you all that. I’m sorry.” I’m certain I assured her it was all right. I remember her smiling gently. I thought we would talk many times more, but I had to go away for awhile and then it was cold and I didn’t get out and I never saw her again.

I’m certain I could have asked around and discovered no doubt that she had taken a friend up on the offer to spend a couple of months – or three – staying in the home and  keeping it “lived in” while he/she  was gone somewhere. That was not an uncommon thing there . . . at that time. I didn’t make any inquiries. There had been that hour on the porch that fall day, and I left it at that. But, when I wake in the middle of the night, when I’m walking through a dark house, I sometimes remember her – sitting on a sofa with her children, waiting for the dawn.

Thomas Bickle is a little boy who hovers in my mind, but I have never met him. I have written about him before. He has a mother who is in my mind also; I have never met her, but in The Thomas Bickle Official Blog, she has shared their journey – the one she and Thomas and Daddy have been traveling.

There was bad news this fall and at Christmas when we put out our lights, I announced that these were “Thomas Bickle lights” and I think I wrote about it here. Then the holiday was over, but I wanted a light to shine for Thomas, and so one does in the western window in the old enclosed porch where I spend so much of my time. It has a soft golden glow and it burns day and night. Sometimes when I look at it and think of this little boy, my eyes fill and twinkling streams of light reach out and glimmer.

This mother, this Sarah, she is a tremendous person and I feel deeply for her. If thoughts help, she has the best I can send. And, Thomas, dear Thomas,  your candle burns too quickly, but its light will be forever.

This was nice. Last night just as I was going to sleep I thought about my husband’s great aunt Cuba and wondered what was her husband’s first and last name. And my brain was able to pull the information out of some crevasse. Good chemicals from the success uplifted my spirits.

It was a little tricky; I knew he name was a “bit” different, with the flavor of a foreign country to it, but just trying to think of those types of names didn’t yield anything. So I did the old alphabet trick. I got really teased by the “E” category, as if I were almost there. I forced myself to go on and as I hit  “I” territory, it came to me – Ivan. YES. YES. YES. YES. WOO-HOO.

But my body craved more of the good chemical of success and I thought . . . last name? last name?  last name?

The alphabet again. Trying to hear my husband’s voice in my head . . . almost saying the name.
Oh, gosh, I was getting toward the end – past the “R” section and the “T” faction and getting nervous . . . and then, then, my mouth said it and I heard my husband’s voice say it at the same time: Vilander. Ivan Vilander.

Not that this has much importance, if any, but it sure felt good to have some brain cells firing.

HERE

Back when I was in college, a girl (Abby) in our circle of friends was really attractive; we all were convinced of it. Then one of our mothers showed up and we introduced her. The first thing she said when she was alone with her daughter was to remark that Abby didn’t have good features at all. Oh? The daughter told this to us, her friends, and we were all surprised, as she had been.

But, actually, when you came to really think about it, to picture Abby in your mind, we had to agree the mother was correct. To be quite truthful, Abby was not only unattractive, she was homely. It was her personality, of course, that had grabbed us the moment we met her. We thought she was beautiful; we still do.

My mother in NE LaGrange County says the sky is lightening up and if the usual pattern holds, we should be seeing some sun in NW Noble County in a few minutes. Do like the Whos and cry, “Sun, we are here. We are here.”

UPDATE: Thank you, thank you, thank you. I almost see shadows outside because the sun is almost out. I had about given up and then, the total gloom lifted. Summer is throwing up; I almost typed “puking” and I don’t know why. I don’t talk that way. Now, please shout: “Flu Spirit – AmeliaJake is not here. AmeliaJake is not here.”