I ran several errands today, the last one taking me to Albion, which is southwest of here, Kendallville. I usually go SE to Fort Wayne, or a longer SE vector and end up in Dayton, Ohio – or NW to this little village in Lagrange County. Up until May 12, I did often go to Albion, because that’s where my friend Kathryn Feller and her roommate who became my friend, Clara Bender, used to share a room in North Ridge Nursing Home. Clara died early in the year; Kathryn died May 12th and because the nursing home was my only destination to the west, I have not driven by since.

I have thought about going over to visit with some of the residents and nurses and aides I met over the past few years, but I just didn’t do it. Today, I drove right by the entrance on the way to downtown Albion, and on the way back, I turned into the entrance road. It was strange going back and not making that turn into Room 420 – but I think it would have eventually felt stranger to have never returned at all.

I was able to visit and laugh with residents I had seen regularly and talk with staff I had come to know. I first saw Tiffany; I remember a few years ago when she was a very competent and mature aide, I had asked her age while in Kathryn’s room. She said 19. Good Heavens, what I would have given to have had her poise at that age. Sharon was there – Sharon who was so understanding and calm and caring during Kathry’s last days. And Tracy with her incredibly consistent good humor. And others I spotted while visiting with Helen Rex who had been Dorothy’s roommate when Dorothy had been Kathryn’s tablemate. Dorothy passed away last fall.

I didn’t get to see Amanda – an aide whose is also a triplet – who took care of Kathryn and Clara for years, always with a smile. Amanda, who washed Kathryn for the last time . . . Matt is a resident who was in the hospital, but he’ll be back. And I guess so will I.

I know “Life goes on” is a cliche, but then almost everything is and it doesn’t matter. In this case, it’s a resigned sigh, an acceptance of breathing in and breathing out until that one day when you don’t. It’s the laughter that followed remembering Clara and Kathryn stories and it will be the laughter of those remembering the times AmeliaJake (you know: me) did some eccentric thing. (Yes, there were lots of times. We just don’t need to talk about some of them now. You know, like backing into the garage door . . .)

There are five blank stars and your job as a rater of the book you have just read – or maybe one you read 25 years ago – is to fill in the number or stars that reflect your opinion of the book. This is not unlike the 1-10 pain scale in doctors’ offices where 10 is supposed to be the worse pain you have ever felt. Well, if you are not moaning and grimacing and whimpering, I’d said you don’t have a 10, but I’ve been informed some people calmly say “Eleven.”

Well, put that out of your mind for now and just think of the book rating scale of 1-5. This is so unfair; it does not take into consideration the reader’s mood. Sometimes you gear a book to what you want to experience at the moment, and not just in topics. For instance, if you are sitting in a waiting area to have your oil changed and the chairs are uncomfortable and there is no drink machine and the TV is high on the wall and playing one of those totally mindless game shows, just about anything to read would be appreciated. It might have the quality of a minus 1, but in that circumstance, it could easily seem a three.

Are you reading to relax? A fanciful and somewhat – okay, really unbelievable story – might fit the bill. You might actually groan at a well-written book with long, complex sentences because you are in the mood for: Greta looked out a the people seated and saw her proud parents as she received her summa cum laude degree at Stanford. There was no time for hugs afterwards, though, as she had to hurry to pose for pictures with the one other Olympic Gold Medal winner athlete in her class. That planned routine, that happy moment was shattered when gunmen wearing Obama masks stormed the gathering and kidnapped Susan’s father, the senator from Wyoming who was the leading contender for his party’s nomination for president. Buck Allscout, a Rhodes Scholar and Greta’s boyfriend, jumped up to thwart the action, but he stopped mid-step, grabbed his chest and collapsed as pustules erupted within seconds over his body. Blood flowed from the side of his mouth as he uttered his last words: Bud of the Rose. The lady who had been standing next to Buck screamed as she saw a giant bubo start to blossom on her hand. Despite her elegant appearance, she yelled, “F*CK!”

So is this a five star? Uh, I’m thinking not, but when you’re feeling low and want a distraction, it might just beat “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”

I think anyone rating/reviewing a book should let it be known what he/she likes to read. Then, again, some people write very good prose as they pen books such as, oh, The Slut of Sacramento. Others may take a shared human emotion and reduce it to a cliche, with a misplaced comma and maybe a misspelling.

Still, a reader can put up with a lot if the subject is one that captivates him. I know; I’ve grimaced at chopped-up sentences in books about espionage.

Some books are so full of elegant sentences that is is hard to leave each one to go to the next, but maybe the story is a bore.

And then there are the books – and I am generous with that noun – that are composed of nothing but dialogue. Talk about needing a wall to bang your head against. But that’s my opinion. I really don’t like to trash a book with just using stars as a rating. Of course, if one knows AmeliaJake, then the number of stars would have some relevance, but beyond that, it’s all up for grabs.

Those stars – such a responsibility. And once I said a book was well-written, but I didn’t care for the topic . . . and the author trashed me in an email. Sigh.

I am being very specific in the post title because I suspect my brain may be a little addled; I spent five and a half hours mowing. Yes it was on a riding mower, but we have had so much rain, with little drying time in between that the grass was sooooo tall. I had to put the mower height at the highest position for the major part of the yard and I still had to climb off the mower to clear out the chute. Many times – off and back on, off and back on.

Because it was on the highest level, the whole thing looked like a bad haircut and I had to go over it again at a lower level. And still the grass blades held so much water, the chute constantly clogged. Off and on; off and on. The tricky part of this off and on thing is that my cargo shorts are just the right length, given my height and the structure of the mower, that the back of the left leg kept catching on the shift that determines Forward, Neutral and Reverse. This was not a pleasant experience since it caught before my foot hit the ground and I could go no farther down until I had raised myself by my arms and kind of made a movement that hiked my shorts off the shift.

I do hope you didn’t try to visualize that. But here I am after all this adventure: crooked smile, crooked hat and crooked glasses.

Clutter windowsill with picture of first dog and hurricane lamps . . . and other stuff

Living in a little town in the Midwest, you walk down the street and see a lot of old houses with front porches; and from the porches before air-conditioning, people would sit in the evening and talk to people passing by or enjoy a glass of lemonade while the trees along the street shaded the area.

When I go for walks, I pass many front porches, most of them empty, except for a flower pot or a hanging windchime or a swing. Now, on a lot of the streets, the trees have been cut down when the road was widened and the shade wasn’t as important because of of air-conditioning. Some of the porches have been enclosed and I guess can be used as an extra room, but it’s right there close to the sidewalk and not so private.

One fellow has an enclosed porch with a cut-out figure of Obama on it; I think he’s a biggie in the Democratic party. I had to change my walking route so I wouldn’t have fight the urge to break a window and grab that darn cardboard guy and rip him up.

I’m off track here. What I started out to say is that I’m glad the porch on The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse was built on the north side of the house. It’s enclosed now with windows on three sides and tall shrubs filtering out the neighboring yard. It is like being in a forest, but just a few blocks from eateries.

And, being on the side of the house, I guess it cuts down on the possibility of being hit by a drive-by shooting. Okay, I am sliding down the crazy hill.

Der Bingle got up very early Sunday morning to catch a flight to San Diego; to be precise, he got a flight to Atlanta, waited a few hours and then flew to SD. He travels light and had just enough room in his bag to allow IceBat Blue to take a little vacation.

They got there, went down to Pacific Beach where we used to have an apartment and it RAINED! In July! With a drought going on. The Padres had to have a rain delay.

IceBat Blue was thinking that his magic had something to do with it and was considering running for mayor.

Oh, he’s the one on the left.

Within the last few months, I have been receiving emails referencing the possibility that my death might be imminent. They arrive every every few days; one this week stated in the subject slot: Bad Luck Can Happen at Any Time . . .

I don’t know if my name is on some psychic’s list or a hitman’s list, but it’s getting a little eerie.

Does it have something to do with any sites I may have visited? Have I looked up any illnesses? Is it because I have entered the Senior Citizen Zone?

Well, in case anything happens, let me post this picture of the age-old, whatever that means, trumpet vine that has been on the southwest corner of my mother’s house since I can remember.

I do hope that does not trigger any link to Gabriel blowing his horn . . .

Well, it is perfect workout/walking weather – 80 degrees and a humidity that makes it fell like 87. I would be sweating like a glass of iced tea in Miami. And it would feel so good to get back with soaking hair and clinging wet clothes to sip some flavored water while the endorphins just flow through my brain.

But, I’m not going. Not today and I don’t know why and I’ll probably feel guilty all the rest of the day; but damn it, I don’t want to go. There’s got to be some reverse psychological type of masochism going on here.