So, what am I writing about? Well, something that I just realized I was reading about seven years ago: a little boy named Thomas Bickle who died of a brain tumor. I followed his story through his mother’s posting on her blog. Just type “Bickle” into the search category, and the posts will come up, if you are interested. Or just take a look at one – this one. Or type in Dwarves of Grief; it will melt your heart.

I have had a light – and amber one – in my west-facing porch window for a long time now; I’ve gone through several bulbs; It’s Thomas Bickle’s light. It sits unobtrusively on the wide window sill and shines out all the time. It is still there because some things just have to be remembered and acknowledged – an enduring remembrance that transcends the drama of an event that moves forever further into the past.

Tonight I noticed the special warmth of its glow and I almost heard myself whisper, “Hello, there, Thomas’ light. Shine on.”

I decided to write about these moments because every now and then, I need to stop with boring accounts and puns and made-up silly ideas and expressions of disgust at some politicians and just cite a worthy reason for this blog to be here.

It started snowing about nine last night and driving home included trying to figure out what was snow on the road and what was dried salt. By the time I made it to my street, there was no doubt. We are at the very northern edge of this latest storm. Der Bingle is in the middle. In fact, he just cleaned off his car and shoveled behind it a short while ago. The temperature here and there is not that cold, which is not all that good. It’s a wet snow and tonight the temperature is going to plunge, making an icy mess in the morning.

We’ve had some incredible March snows, including the St. Patrick’s Day blizzard back in the 70″s. A week later, my parents picked me up at the airport and the snow along the roadway towered over the car. In 2012, though, I attended a burial and the temperature was 85.

I’m in a time warp in other ways – I’ve been playing Glenn Miller tunes while Mrs. Feller dozes and feel myself being drawn into the 40’s via movie memories. I am starting to expect cars to be big and rounded and the radio to announce the latest war news. And hats – men don’t have their hats on . I wonder if I’ll get trapped back there; if that appears to be the case, call Pennsylvania 6-5000.

LZP sent me a link to the New Peeps highlighted here and started talking about all sorts of fun experiences with the little guys and asked for his input. Well, he sent back an idea that seems at first rather non-scary, but once the image was in my mind, I find myself going AAAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHH.

The suggestion: Peeps with gravy. Do yourself a favor; don’t imagine it. Yes, I know, it’s too late.

March 1st: Looks like I flubbed the link when first published. Let’s see if I’ve fixed it.

LZP sent me a link to new Peeps. So many opportunities for adventures, like maybe an interrogation of a mystery Peep to tell his flavor. Oh, bare light bulb . . . or maybe a second in a microwave.

I went to sleep very late last night, actually this morning – mostly due to someone wanting to talk and then reading, which I had just earlier cautioned Der Bingle about. I woke about six and figured, okay, I’d get on with the day. I changed my mind; I’d give it an hour. My body changed my mind more – I woke to exclaim: HOLY MOSES! IT’S 8:30.

I’m calling it beauty sleep, but common sense calls my bluff and I am not turning on the computer camera and taking a picture of myself. At least I’m awake enough now to not be totally stupid.

Given the troubles that many people have such as serious illness and unemployment stress, I am not going to say this was a yucky day. Realizing I have a roof over my head, I am not going to say this was a yucky day. But in the smaller scope of things: YUCK.

I may or may not have done anything yesterday besides sit around thinking I should be doing something. Today is starting out the same. It may be a phase . . . or the start of a urinary tract infection.

No more jokes; I just remembered what happened last evening that I think I have tried to repress. On the way over to the nursing home, approaching an awkward curving railroad overpass, the speed limit drops. I was at the end of a line of cars, not overly close together, when I realized we were slowing way down. I’ve seen a lot of police cruisers parked along my routes lately and I immediately thought a driver ahead had spotted one.

The slowdown was more than a nonchalantly “you didn’t see me, officer” thing. Car distances closed
and there was minor swerving; but on that stretch of road, on that overpass approach, you don’t swerve much – you just can’t. All I could see out the windshield was the back of the car in front of me. Then I heard something hit my wheel; I thought a frozen clod of snow had fallen from the undercarriage of a car; I glanced in the rear window immediately and saw an animal, I think a dog, lying on the road. I wasn’t the first to hit it, but I don’t know if it was already dead when I did.

A guy in a pick up had already pulled over; Mrs. Feller was waiting for me. I went on, just like they say – life goes on, but, damn it, sometimes it should pause.

We cleaned the refrigerator today, a somewhat daunting task. In a day or so, we will will attack the freezer side.

When I was a very little girl, before I could even remember, I started the habit of running my fingers along the satin on my blanket. My dad dubbed it “the feeler.” It is a habit that has stayed with me, and my mother said that were I to die before her, she would see to it that I was buried with a ribbon laced in my fingers.

I have an amethyst necklace of polished oblong stones that was a present from Der Bingle. I have found myself wearing it more and more often because I have discovered running my fingers over it is not unlike the sensation of the calming and relaxing “feeler.” After scrubbing the refrigerator free of spilled gunk, the amethyst was most appreciated.

I was asked to go for a walk today and so I did. We picked, when we could, sidewalks that had been cleared and as we neared Main Street, I wondered aloud what was playing at the local theater. So we trudged on a bit, turned a corner and saw the Marquee: %0 Shades of Gray and Spongebob 2. The word checker doesn’t like Spongebob, but it says gray is okay; I’m wondering if it is grey. I spell it one way sometimes and the other way on occasions. So now I’m going to have to look up the movie title on my computer and, of course, the Internet will flag me for ads for it . . . and who knows what else.

Of course, being flagged for Spongebob is a tad unsettling as well.

I am off to Fort Wayne today, on an errand to take someone to a doctor’s appointment. It will be cold, but not supposed to snow. And that is what I have been reduced to – minutiae and weather reporting. Probably not a good sign.

Someone found another one of Shane’s Wubbas – under something or behind something or stuck down in a crevice. I was speaking of him the other day, about his death that came so suddenly and unexpectedly. I have for some reason gathered so many people and connections and memories in that dog. The newly-surfaced, but half-chewed Wubba caused my throat to constrict and two tears to run down my cheeks.

They call them Aussie Heart Dogs because of the asymptomatic time bomb in their hearts; I think there is another component to the name. The defect breaks your own heart, over and over again. All he ever did was love people and clown around.

People tell me Shane’s gone and he’s not coming back, and while I understand it, the tears still come and I long for that soft warm fur in which I could snuggle my face.

Not a very brave post, not upbeat, not forward-looking. Still I find mourning Shane comforts me, as if I am sending a message to him of love.