It’s like this: I felt a bit of pressure in my sinuses this afternoon so I thought I’d just lie down and tilt my head a certain way. I fell into a nap; I don’t think that’s a widely used idiom, but if you can fall into a deep sleep, why not a nap? Then I woke up and thought, Oh my dear goodness (or something of that ilk), how am I ever going to get to sleep tonight?

So I read a book, did a couple of Sudoku’s, laughed at the thought of housework and took part in a Words with Friends game. I have been told, by the way, that since I only play with one person, my game is Word with Friend, but that’s a technicality and like Rhett, I don’t give a damn.

Later, I found my mind becoming befuddled as I tried to think of words my letters could make and I decided it would be wiser to wait until the morning to continue. I was feeling drowsy and I lay down in my jammies. That’s what I did – I lay there. After a while it occurred to me that my befuddledment was perhaps somewhat akin to being tipsy and having a craving for silly jokes and bad puns.

That brings us to now. It is difficult to have a Gatsby party for one and herbal tea doesn’t usually flow from a fountain. And it definitely has NO BUBBLES. I suppose I will have to tell myself a bedtime story about 90 people – electricians, plumbers, carpenters and maids come in and, after sending me to hotel room with a mini-fridge, redo my house overnight. Kind of the way workmen swarmed over the heavily damaged Yorktown in WWII to get it back in service 72 hours after it arrived at Pearl Harbor.

Oh, and gardeners with floodlights, and, hey, I’ll let them work on through the day tomorrow. It is such a nice little fairy tale.

Well:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

I think there is a new version now that deals with morning light, but this is the first one I learned, just like I learned the words to Jesus Loves Me in Sunday School before I was old enough for real school. I say I learned the words, because everyone knows I could never learn the tune.

Guido here to say hi to all you folks out there, especially Estelle. (Private jokie, Guido-style, dontcha know?) So how’s it going? I’m sort of bored here myself, so if anyone has any suggestions for a party, let me know. Yes, of course, a bat isn’t the first guest that you might think of inviting. But hey, I’m cool; did you know I was Babe Ruth’s bat boy back in the day. HoHoHoHoHoHoHoHo . . . ah, deep breath. Hey, I got a million of them, folks. I can come up with a funny right off the bat . . . Ok, maybe that was a little bit in left field.

Well, I’d better go now. AmeliaJake’s jealous of my sparkling personality.

About 40 years ago, a lady of unbounded energy and ambition introduced me to Estee Lauder. I can remember standing at the counter as if it were yesterday. I bought a foaming cleanser, and astringent and a moisturizer. And with age, I have lost the astringent and added other products – oh, like Night Repair, for instance.

Now, one of my grandmothers did not have a wrinkle on her face at the age of 80. I have not been that lucky, but for a long time, my skin retained a fairly youthful look. When people questioned my age, I replied “genes and Estee Lauder” and let it go at that. I don’t know how much credit goes to the company’s skin care products, but I ain’t fooling with the habit of a lifetime.

I could remember the lady’s name at the time, but she has since remarried and the last name escaped me. However, I knew she had a notable career and with a first name and some key words, I found what I believed to be her current name. So I Googled some more; I found one site that I knew was her, but as I scrolled down, I came across a picture that – taking into account her love of life spirit – proclaimed she is definitely the one.

I know they usually block out the eyes to preserve privacy, but, in this case, the eyewear is the dead giveaway. So, in reverse, I give you my Estee Lauder connection:

This fellow appeared outside my window and is still there:

And Der Bingle was a Joe’s Crab Shack at Pacific Beach:

You have heard stories about people who have an accident and for a long time are in state of altered consciousness – or downright unconscious. And then, after the “wake up”, people tell them what has been going on. Well, I think I’ve fallen into a fugue. I hope someone is taking notes.

The roads were well-salted and dry all the way here, but then I’m talking about major roads. Gump Road in Fort Wayne was a long mile and a quarter, accessorized with mailboxes toppled over into roadway. A lot of snow in Kendallville and it looks as if it were splatted in places like fire extinguisher foam.

South of here, where the snow wasn’t as deep, it was intense. One lady told me, “We had five inches, but it moved around a lot.” Signs on Hwy 30 were still covered with frozen snow; it helped to be familiar with what they said. The police were evident on I-75, probably looking for ecstatic drivers, thinking, “I can see the road! I can see the road!” They found a couple, but I wasn’t one of them. I will probably get the salt mobile washed in the next couple of days. Actually, at times like this I love salt. If Lot’s wife were with me, I would tell her to look back and then crumble her up on my path. Oh, that was horrible. Sigh.

In truth, it was kind of nice down in the cozy apartment, all quiet with the remote all mine. I have now watched all of the Doc Martin episodes on Netflix. He’s an acquired taste. I gave George Gently a chance; Der Bingle likes him. He’s not bad, but there is something about his appearance than makes me wary – maybe he reminds me of someone.

We probably need a BBC-type police force here at the cafe, but I don’t think the regulars will let me be Chief Inspector. I know they wouldn’t let me have a siren and bubble light. Why am I fretting about this? I should just be Her Ladyship, AmeliaJake – just let me go stick an embroidered hankie inside my cuff for those “vapors” moments.

I am still in Fairborn at The Redoubt because the route back to Kendallville is a hazardous trek through counties with various levels of travel restriction levels. I suggested people send me pictures of the driveway, but they did not, so I am adhering to the adage that ignorance is bliss.

Shipshewana had 16-18″ of snow. Of course, that doesn’t include the drifts which were especially bad on East/West roads. The county road where the house is, is an old Indian trail running from Defiance, Ohio to White Pigeon, Michigan and it’s pretty much east to west.
Hwy 30 going into Fort Wayne is East/West and, oh, there were white-out conditions.

Here in Fairborn, we lucked out, getting rain and spitting snow, but then it stopped and the roads didn’t freeze – at least those that are covered with layers of salt. Everyone was prepared for the base to close on Monday, but there wasn’t even a delay. It looked as if I could just hop in the car and go home. Well, I could have hopped in the car and headed north, but more than likely, I would have wound up sitting in a fast food parking lot somewhere, waiting out the road clearing process.

So here I sit, all warm and cozy. Der Bingle, by the way is on the way to the airport to try to get to San Diego, BUT he is to change flights in Detroit and that ain’t good. Flights are being delayed and he may make it to Detroit and no farther. I honestly feel guilty about sitting here. He’s flown in bombers over enemy territory, and cargo planes across the Pacific and countless commercial flights for our family. And not only the flying, the dashing through airports, the long delays . . . Thank you, Der Bingle.

Oddly enough, reading through a couple of the Wickham Remembrances, I found myself considering more recent happenings:

I can’t remember the last time I sat down to flip some of the pages in the Wickham Family Reunion Photograph Book. It is bittersweet, the memories of picnics and the people who were there, and who are not here any longer.

That is not to say that the Wickham Clan has diminished; in fact, there are tons of descendents and they still gather to catch up on old times and long-established feuds. And, no, I am not going to even mention the Potato Salad Controversy, let alone put forth an opinion.

However, when you’ve been to a few decades of reunions, you find yourself evolving from the wet behind the ears whipper-snapper listening to probably exaggerated stories to the old geezer telling them, with your own embellishments. And you can almost hear the earlier generation of geezers exclaiming, “No, no, no. You’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t Henry who backed into the Turkey Deep Fryer with a 1953 Chevy pick-up; it was Elias. Henry ran over the giant garden rendition of the American Flag at Aunt Emma’s on July 4th of “73.” Oh, yeah, that’s right. Heaven’s to Betsey, that made a mess – not only to the patriotic flower bed over which Emma had labored, but to Henry’s face, which she slammed in the car door . . . repeatedly until Cousin Stan pulled her off.

But then bittersweet isn’t bad, compared to what’s happening these days when photos are not just in an album to be passed around. No, today there is Facebook, there is Twitter, there is Instagram.

Just minutes after Justin put the kebobs over the fire too long, they flamed up, torching the edge of the canopy tent. Louie tried to put it out immediately by swinging the large lemonade pitcher, launching the liquid upward to wet the cloth. It was a herculean effort and might have retarded the flames if Anna had not liberally spiked her “Lemonade with a Bite” with alcohol. The recipe had been handed down through the years since Prohibition, when it had been especially effective in boosting attendance in that depressed era – and sending home temporarily happier folks.

Justin, to his credit, did manage to use the garden hose to finally put the fire out. Unfortunately, it was right at the beginning of the Reunion and not enough “Lemonade” had been imbibed to put people in a good humor when the blast of water soaked them along with the main buffet table. Justin had known this might happen, being a physics teacher who was well aware of the adage that what goes up must come down. He had felt it best not to let the canopy burn out of control.

Had he taught psychology, he might have let the thing burn and used the water to start a party-sized and industrial strength lemonade drink by partially filling the old washtub with water, while calling for lemons, the “special ingredient” and ice.

But he did not.

I would not say there was rioting, but folks were agitated

You couldn’t hear the sound of cell phone cameras recording the scene, but very shortly thereafter, the exclamations of those watching replays of the action overrode the laments of those looking at the slushy three bean salad, the dripping jell-o sculpture, the soggy hot dog buns, and so on.

That’s just the beginning. For weeks, people couldn’t resist watching the whole thing “one more time” on YouTube – sort of a local Tickle Me Elmo phenomenon that leaves everyone laughing. Almost everyone.

Justin, of course, was not pleased. The Wickhams wouldn’t use the word laughing stock, idiot and bozo aloud, but they did think them and Justin was certain he could see cartoon bubbles above everyone’s heads with those exact words in them.

Poor Louie was punched in the nose by Henry, who was temporarily deranged by the sight of the “lemonade” flying up and away like a Carrie Nation fast ball.

Actually, I have to go now. I feel this urge to put the photo album down and just have a look at YouTube myself.

Don’t mention it to Der Bingle, but I’m really going to City Barbecue – and, with luck, this lunch will not be followed by a quick trip back to Lagrange because of a break-in. I may twist his arm and have him grab another Hot Head Burrito – or maybe a sub. I may think I am on the Road to The Redoubt, but it seems as if I am on The Road to Perdition when it comes to dieting.

I opened another Wickhan file . That’s a warning.

Malcolm Falls has been such an idyllic little town to live in that R. Simon Wickham, aged 68, was quite taken aback when he came out of the Back Door Café, turned the corner and saw what appeared to be gang members – yes, gang members, clustered around what the younger generation would refer to as a pimped out RV. “Pimped out” being defined somewhere as “having excessive embellishments or ornaments, particularly of the flashy kind.”

Well, at least that is how the RV appeared to Simon; scenes from the James Dean movie “Rebel Without a Cause” were painted on the sides – and it was the kind of artistry in which the eyes of characters appeared to follow a passerby. He also noticed that there were about six other huge RV’s lined up, all with distinctive paint jobs and some with gold rims.

Simon was unnerved. Malcolm Falls was a place of picket fences and soda shops, band concerts on the courthouse lawn, Friday night high school basketball crowds.

It was not a place of “pimped out” RV’s.

In fact, how did Simon even know the phrase “pimped out?” Oh, yeah, reading the big city newspapers. He looked at the gang members and a strange shudder passed through him – his world was changing . . . or maybe not. There was something familiar about the group.

“Lucas? Lucas, is that you?” Simon choked out. The fellow in the black leather jacket with “Grey Lion” on the back turned and grinned a warm hello. Striding forward, he reached Simon quickly and slapped him on the back: “Hey, how’s it going? Haven’t seen you since our 45th reunion at Yale.

For some reason, Simon didn’t want to say he had been on the croquet circuit during the summer and playing chess with some other retirees from his old accounting firm, so he said, “Big game hunting.” He figured Lucas was envisioning a lion’s head mounted on his den wall, or at least a moose, while he, Simon, could only see maybe a giant rook or Queen’s pawn over the mantle.
To change the direction of the conversation, Simon thought fast on his feet and asked, “Uh, and what have you been doing?”

Lucas beamed and extended his arm at the giant RV, “Well, Maude and I got tired of retirement and decided to follow the example of your Aunt Bernice.” Ah yes, Simon remembered his Aunt Bernice who had traveled around the Pacific Rim paragliding over volcanoes when she was in her 80’s and he responded, rather dully, “Oh, yes, Aunt Bernice.”

“Yes indeed, Bernice Wickham,” Lucas said, awe in his voice. “She had a great funeral, too, a real celebration of life – her ashes blown into the sky from a cannon.”

Lucas pointed at a 43-footer in the line and said, “Lloyd and Sue read Bernice’s autobiography and checked out of their retirement home and got their RV. We’ve got about 37 folks in our group now. We’re searching for our own volcanoes.” Of course, Lucas was speaking metaphorically.

Both men were silent for a while. Lucas’ face a mixture of admiration and sadness; Simon’s one of inadequacy.

Yes, Simon was once again reminded that he was the black sheep Wickham – always conforming to the mainstream mold, never once even considering doing anything until it was well established and, if necessary, covered by his insurance policy.

He also realized in that moment that Lucas would know he was lying about the big game hunting remark; heck the most adventurous he had ever been was to be the point after man on the football team – sometimes it rained and the ball was slippery. What had they called him? Oh, yeah, “Ole Sure Shoe Simon.”

He once thought he had heard one of his Wickham cousins say “Simply Simon.” That’s what he was, actually, without an eccentricity to his name.

All at once, he realized Lucas was talking about how he and Maude had decided to embrace life . . . and the American Highway and the National Park Systems. “Well, Simon.” Lucas began, “We were going to first go on motorcycles and then Maude saw a picture of an RV in a magazine.”
Simon nodded.

Lucas invited him inside the RV . . . and the transformation of Simon began. It was big – 45 feet of pure luxury with two TV’s and a walk-in closet in the bedroom, not to mention the stacked washer/driver and Granite Entry Steps – we kid you not.

Lucas pointed out some of the features: “Yes, sir, Simon, this baby has a Series 60 Detroit Diesel 515 HP engine with Allison® 4000 MH 6-Speed world transmission and electronic shifter, heavy-duty steel superstructure with steel cage cockpit construction, triple head power controlled heated chrome exterior mirrors with turn Indicator lights, a 40? LCD TV in living area ceiling, and – the piece de resistance – dual trumpet air horns.” He said more, but Simon simply wasn’t listening anymore.

He had finally felt the call of his heritage and asked, “So where do you get one of these babies?” Lucas looked at Simon and saw the newly-lit gleam in his eye and exclaimed, “Buddy, that’s easy; the hard part is picking out a name for your jacket.”

So if you’re cruising along the highway and pass a line of RV’s and if you hear the sound of a dual trumpet air horn shake you out of your socks, there’s a good chance you’ve crossed the path of Richard Simon Wickham, aka “Cruiser with the Oldies.”

I fell into a period of reading a few books that go beyond Clive Cussler and the incredibly perfect Dirk Pitt who once drove an undersea vehicle around, if not the Mariana’s Trench, then another really long one, and exited the ocean on a beach while tourists stared.

I don’t know why, really. Perhaps escapism, perhaps the draw of serials and soap operas that can suck you in . . .

One was a switched at birth novel (free) and the other was a time travel type story (free) involving an old Nazi ship and eventually a Gypsy-like curse – which totally reduced the time travel part to a footnote. I say the books were free on Kindle; but I paid. I have no idea why I kept paying, unless it was something like the draw of an old-fashioned freak show: Come on in and see the amazing coincidences that you won’t believe – just one thin dime for each unveiling. How about you there on the sofa. Yes, you. You know you’re curious.

I’ve got to get a grip on myself.