Journal: Ineffective Conglomerates and Other Incongruities

 

Last week one of my nephews asked for a picture of my Great-Grandfather Jessie Franklin Swiney, born in 1859.  This is when I appreciate the benefits of scanning and labeling all my old printed photos:  I pull up the Pictures folder, type a name into the search box – and seconds later, there are all the photos that have that name in their label.

This is my Great-Grandfather Swiney’s family.  Back row:  Great-Uncle Shorty, my Grandfather George W.  Middle row:  Great-Grandmother Addie Melissa, Great-Aunt Jenny, Great-Grandfather Jessie Franklin.  Front row:  Great-Uncle Tom, Great-Aunt Leta.  My Grandpa Swiney was born in 1889.

I remember picking up my Great-Aunt Leta and taking her with us to my Grandma Swiney’s funeral in Shelbyville, Illinois.  I was 12.  We pulled up in front of the apartment building where she lived, and she, a little lady of nearly 80, came rushing out the front door waving and smiling, put her hand on the railing, and ran lightly down the stairs (quite a few of them) to get to the street level.  

I thought, I’m going to be just like that when I’m her age.

Ahem.  

For sure, I’ll smile.  I might not dash down staircases.  But I shall smile.

Speaking of ancestry, I have heard – whether true or false, I cannot say – that the Swiney Castle of Caithness, Scotland, was built and occupied by ancestors of ours.  Ruins of the castle can be seen slightly left of center in this picture.  It’s on the far northeastern tip of Scotland.

Shortly after noon on Tuesday, I got a call from the social worker at Methodist Hospital in Omaha, telling me Loren was doing very well, and was being transferred back to the nursing home that day.  He would not have to go to a rehab center.  I was glad to hear that.  Prairie Meadows has a good physical therapy room, and they do have therapists on their staff; but I didn’t know if they’d be able to care for Loren yet.  They can!

After a bit of housecleaning, I went upstairs to resume the scanning of photos.  I got 122 pictures scanned that day.

That evening, I asked Larry to check the closet in the little library next to my sewing room, as I was hearing a rustling sound in the wall.  Those bats we’ve been seeing are coming from somewhere up there, and it’s most likely from the ceiling in that closet, where plaster has fallen from the slats, though I have not seen any telltale signs of them.  This is the closet where I hang my good church clothes.  I do not appreciate bats using my closet as a waystation.

He went up there to take a look – and suddenly there was a very loud and extended CRRRASHSHSH!!! from upstairs.

“What happened??!!” I cried, hurrying up the stairs to see if Larry was still in one piece, or if he was buried under debris.

It seemed in his zest to rout any possible bats, he had shoved a bin on a shelf in the closet back against the sloped ceiling – and down came a large slab of plaster.  He started to answer me – and another slab came crashing down.

And there was indeed evidence of bats in the mess now strewn on the floor.  Ugh, ugh.

So... griping and grumbling, Larry went to get broom, dustpan, and garbage can, and after that, the shop vac.  He then spent a while sweeping and vacuuming shelves, ceiling, floor, and clothes.

He’s been telling me for a long while now that he would fix that ceiling, if my clothes weren’t in the way.  I inform him that I will not be moving those clothes until he is definitely and visibly ready to start on the project.  He says he can’t start until I move them.

That’s whatcha call an impasse.

He has now figured out a way to Sheetrock the ceiling and get everything sealed off without removing all the clothes from the closet.  Someday when we both have more time on our hands, I’ll move the clothes and help him finish the closet properly.

Meanwhile, I turned the page in the album I was scanning, and came to pictures taken at our former house in town after a whole lot worse calamity than a little bit of plaster falling off the ceiling:  a house fire, back in June of 1988.

It was a miracle we all made it out, as it happened in the morning after Larry went to work, when we were still sleeping.  No one smelled the smoke, but Keith, 8, woke up, heard the flames crackling, and got up and went to see what it was.  Dorcas, almost 6, then ran upstairs to tell me. 

The fire started in the closet of Hannah and Dorcas’ room when a cord from the dryer overheated.  Larry had tossed some jeans into the dryer before he went to work.

By the time I ran down there to look, half of the closet was engulfed in flames all the way to the ceiling.  I had a fire extinguisher in hand, but, unbeknownst to me, someone had pulled the pin.  When I squeezed the handle, only one small dollop of foam came out, pffft. 

I threw it down and told the three children who were downstairs, “Let’s go!”  As we ran up the stairs, I said, “Keith, you get the dog.”  Ebony, our Black Lab, was in the little bathroom off the master bedroom where she stayed during the night.  I was jerking on a housecoat as I grabbed the phone and dialed 911 (and got the phone and cord down one sleeve, somehow). 

The dispatcher said in a bored voice, “Yes, what is your emergency.”

“Our house is on fire!” I told her.  “The address is 1759 42^nd Avenue.”

The dispatcher said in a snotty tone, “Ma’am, do you just smell smoke, or are there actually flames?”

“It’s a roaring inferno!!” I retorted indignantly, trying to sound as snotty as she did.  “We have to get out.”  I hung up without waiting for a reply and ran to get the little boys and scoop up Calico Kitty, who was standing worriedly on the arm of the couch staring at me with a beseeching ‘Don’t forget me!’ expression, and out the door we went. 

As we were exiting the house, I thought about the parakeet and the little hamster, which was the sweetest, friendliest little thing.  No one could handle the large parakeet cage, but the hamster cage wasn’t heavy, and it had a handle on top...

I turned around to tell Keith to go back those few steps to pick up the cage – and saw black smoke beginning to billow out of all the vents.  I closed my mouth and continued on my way.  There were lots more hamsters in the world.  There was only one Keith.

We went straight over to my sister’s house next door.  We would be there for the next 52 days while our house was totally redone.

I heard one of the smoke alarms belatedly start blaring away as we were halfway between the houses.

One of the firemen later brought the hamster to us; it had survived!  The cage, tucked under a desk between the kitchen and living room, had evidently been far enough away from the streaming smoke that the little creature somehow had enough oxygen to live through it.

I took him out of the cage, cupped him in my hands, and lifted him to my face.  The poor little thing bumpity-bump-bumped his wee head against my chin over and over, as if trying to tell me what a frightening ordeal he had just been through.  He seemed to suffer no ill effects, and lived another couple of years or so before finally dying at a normal age for hamsters.

Jeremy’s late mother Malinda, for whom Jeremy and Lydia’s little Malinda is named, totally refinished that entire three-piece bedroom set.  I had thought it was charred beyond redemption, nothing but garbage; but she spent many hours stripping it, sanding it, refinishing it, and applying a gloss that made it glow.  It was absolutely beautiful when she was done, maybe even prettier than it had been originally.  Jeremy’s sisters used that set, I think.

On one of the online quilting groups to which I belong, we were discussing chance encounters with other quilters.  Here’s my story:

Once upon a time, some years ago, I was standing at the grocery store magazine rack looking at quilting magazines.  Along came a lady, perhaps in her 60s, pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair who was very likely in her late 80s.  (The lady, not the wheelchair.  The wheelchair was probably not a day past ten years old.)

The older woman stared hard at me.  “Do you quilt?!” she inquired imperially.

I smiled at her.  “Yes,” I answered.

“By hand, or by machine?!” she demanded.

“Machine,” I replied.

“Then it’s not real quilting!!!” she snapped authoritatively.

I grinned.  Couldn’t help it.  “Do you travel?” I queried.  (I knew she did; I had seen them unloading her wheelchair from an out-of-state motorhome in the parking lot.)

“Yes,” she responded in a questioning tone.

“Well,” I told her, “It’s not real traveling, unless you go by horse and buggy.”

The woman pushing the wheelchair, the older lady’s daughter, burst out laughing.  I smiled, wished them a safe journey, and proceeded on my way.

Larry and our sons and sons-in-law and grandsons who work in construction have been suffering from the heat.  Wednesday evening, we got halfway to church when Larry said, “I don’t feel well,” and pulled off onto a country road.  We changed drivers, and I asked if he needed to go to Urgent Care.  He said no, so I drove us back home.  He checked his blood pressure, and it was too high – but minutes later, it was down in normal range again.

I think he got too hot, rushed home from work, rushed through a hot shower, rushed into his suit – and kept getting hotter and hotter, until he was feeling odd, with pressure in his head, and dizziness. 

I didn’t go to church, as I would’ve then been late, and I didn’t want to leave him home alone, either.  He felt better in a little while.

I told all our offspring’ns about an electrolyte drink that’s purportedly better than drinks such as Gatorade, as this one does a very good job of adding salts and minerals back into the body.  I’ve ordered some. 

https://redmond.life/collections/re-lyte-electrolyte-mix

If you try it, use the code SPARKS15 to get a 15% discount.  There’s free shipping with $30 worth of merchandise.  There are seven different flavors.  (Is ‘unflavored’ a flavor?)

Here I am, working away (with the usual sustenance) on photo-scanning upstairs in my sewing room, which is more comfortable and roomy than my little office, and has windows, to boot.  That’s the first picture taken on my new laptop with the camera app.  (Well, it’s 8 or 9 months old already; but that’s relatively new, I guess.) 

Thursday, a skilled nurse called to tell me she had been to see Loren the previous day.  She had gone there around noon, and the place was very busy, with ‘people everywhere’, as she described it.

While she was there, Loren disappeared from the dining room – and they found him trotting down the hall....... without his walker!

I knew that was going to happen; he can’t remember, he can’t be bothered... he’ll just walk.  Yikes, that makes my tail get all bushy.

The nurse tried to impress on him that he needs to use the walker, and she told the nurses at the home to keep a close eye on him.  I know they will try, but I know what he’ll do:  if he doesn’t outright forget, he’ll wait until they’re not looking, and sneak right off, lickety-split.  🙄

At the hospital, he kept thinking he needed to get up and ‘go to work’; so I was prepared for this.  I fear he’ll fall again... but short of strapping him down, what can be done?  The nurse said he doesn’t even limp.  He’s not completely steady on his feet, though.

The therapist remarked on Loren’s good spirits and his ability to carry on a conversation. 

Those conversations are more “Alice in Wonderland” and “Wrinkle in Time” stuff than a lot of them know.  There were a few of our friends who wondered why in the world he needed to be in a nursing home, since they had talked with him now and then for a few minutes at church, and couldn’t see a thing wrong with him!

Do you ever time yourself whilst doing household chores?  I do, and I try to beat my own time.  It takes me three minutes flat to fold and put away eight pairs of Larry’s work pants and six work shirts.  Not bad.  😉

By suppertime, the last load of laundry was in the dryer.  Hamburger/vegetable stew was on the stove, making the house smell scrumptious.  Some might think it’s too hot for stew this time of year (88° that day), but the larder was running low, so stew it was.  I used the organic hamburger Kurt and Victoria gave Larry for Father’s Day.  He was pleased; we like soups and stews year around.

I cooked a giant potful, and then, after supper, put it into the refrigerator to have the next day.  Many soups are better on Day 2, because the spices have had time to permeate the potatoes and other dense vegetables.  Mmmm, mmm.

Only after the second day’s meal do I freeze soup, if there’s a large quantity of it that I wish to save for later.  That way, it freezes exactly at its prime, taste-wise.  I put enough for a generous bowlful into each Ziploc bag.  There was enough leftover soup after our two suppers to fill eight bags.

Above is Hester, 8 ½, and here is Lydia, 6 ½, on Easter Sunday, April 12, 1998.

I sent the pictures to the girls, and Hester responded, “I wonder who had to sit next to me in church!! 😄  I remember that lace being really soft, and I always loved that color.”

I laughed and assured her, “That one didn’t have such an unforgiving cancan under it as some, and the fabric and lace were all soft and silky, for once.”

A loud thunderstorm went through later that night, with small hail and crashing lightning and thunder.  The electricity went off a couple of times, though the main part of the storm had already passed over.  The wind blew the front walk-in garage door open with a bang, and then, with an even louder bang, it blew it shut again.

I got 96 pictures scanned Friday.  There are nine albums to go.  I have a total of 32,298 photos scanned.

Here’s Caleb, 4 ½, trying to conduct manly pursuits such as operating a big ol’ Tonka loader, and there’s Victoria, 13 ½ months, trying to operate a beauty salon on the same premises.  🤣

Caleb was good to his baby sister.  😊  It was the day after Easter, April 13, 1998.

This is Dorcas, 15, holding Victoria:

 and here is Kurt, who was 10 ½ months:

Saturday, I went to visit Loren.  I took a longer, more scenic route both coming and going.  That flat track between Columbus and Fremont, without so much as a molehill, gets really old.  😏 It must surely be the flattest part of the entire state.  I prefer traveling over hill and dale.

When I got to the nursing home, I found Loren strolling around without his walker.  He had no idea where it was.  I asked the closest nurse about it.

She didn’t know, either.  “I haven’t seen him with that thing all day!”

!

They’re supposed to keep an eye on him, and make sure he uses his walker!  Guess that’s not being done.  I recognize that he might forget it, and he might even sneak off without it now and then merely because he doesn’t want to be bothered with the thing.  But she knew he hadn’t had it, all day?!

“That makes my hair stand up on end!” I told her.  “He’s liable to fall again.”

She nodded agreeably.  “Isn’t that the truth!”  🙄

Good grief.

I pointed Loren and his friend Roslyn back into the dining room from whence they had recently come, having just had supper (though for a few moments, I couldn’t tell if supper was over and the nurses were escorting people out, or if supper was about to start, and they were escorting people in — and Loren certainly can’t be expected to know if he just ate, or if it’s been hours and hours since his last meal; he hasn’t been able to keep track of that for several years now).

They headed off obediently.  I was walking along with them, but an elderly man in a wheelchair, who must’ve heard me asking the nurse if she knew where Loren’s walker was, asked me, “Are you looking for my daughter?”

‘Daughter’ and ‘walker’ have similar sounds.

I smiled at him and answered, “No, I’m looking for Loren’s walker.”

I started to continue on my way, but he didn’t want me to go.  “My daughter dropped me off here,” he said, “and she was going to come back and get me, but she hasn’t come back.  She must’ve gotten lost, I don’t know.  I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

Poor old gentleman.  It makes me feel so badly for these people, when they can’t understand what’s happening, and are then all frightened and anxious about it.

I smiled again and said, “Oh, it’s all right; she’s not lost, and she’ll be back.  In the meanwhile, there are plenty of people here who will help you and care for you.”

He gave it a bit of consideration, then nodded, and tried a small smile.

I scurried after Loren and Roslyn, made sure they got situated at a table with enough room to look at the newspapers and magazines I’d brought, handed Loren the bag with several of them in it, and told him I’d go find his walker.  I trotted back to his room to see if the walker was in there. 

Joseph, Keith, & Teddy, Balanced Rock, Garden of the Gods, Colorado

March 17, 1998 

I had to go past the man in the wheelchair.  “Have you found my daughter?” he asked.

“Not yet!” I told him cheerily.  “But everything’s fine.”

He smiled.

Sure enough, the walker was in Loren’s room.

As I came back past the gentleman, trying (and failing) to make that walker go in a straight line, I grinned at him, pointed toward the dining room in a ‘that’s where I’m going’ sort of gesture, and gave a little wave as I continued on.

He smiled and waved in return, having calmed considerably.  Sometimes people just need someone to be cheery and reassuring.  They don’t understand everything, but they know how others make them feel.  They won’t remember details; they will remember feelings.  Maybe not with a properly functioning memory; but they’ll go on feeling that attitude with which we leave them.

I pushed the walker up next to Loren at the table and explained (again) why he needs to use it.  I went through a description of the surgery he’d had the previous week. 

He was agreeable, but said, “When a person hasn’t ever used something like that before, he has a hard time remembering it!”

That’s true enough.

Caleb & Teddy, Garden of the Gods, Colorado, March 17, 1998

 

I gave Loren a Rural Nebraska magazine, a Reminisce magazine, and half a dozen Messenger newspapers, along with a couple of pieces of his very own mail that the postman had tucked into one of those newspapers, unbeknownst to me.  When they slid out of the newspaper Loren was looking at, I scooped them up smoothly and crammed them into my purse, saying, “Oops!  Didn’t mean to give you my junk mail, too.”  Loren laughed.

One piece was his investment report.  Just as well he doesn’t see that, as the value has gone dowwwwwn.  Actually, Loren probably wouldn’t even understand what that paper was all about.  In early 2020, he handed me a thick stack of papers, a printout from his bank.  It was his monthly statement, but he thought it was a bill of some sort for some unknown something-or-other. 

“I won’t have any money left, after I pay this!” he told me, all worried.

Norma had tried to explain it to him, but she had just had surgery for cancer on her mouth, and she had a hard time talking. 

I was stumped for a couple of minutes, trying to figure out what this ‘bill’ was that he was talking about, because all I could see was what looked like a statement – though it was quite a bit different from the statement my bank put out (and I no longer received a paper statement in any case).

He was quite relieved when I told him it was only a statement, and he didn’t owe anything.  I squirreled away with it so he wouldn’t find it later and worry all over again.

We were just beginning to realize that there was a serious problem with Loren’s memory and cognitive skills back then.  After a few more small clues, I got in gear and had him fill out Power of Attorney paperwork for both health and finances, while he was still able to understand what he was doing.

The other envelope, thick and about 9” x 6”, was from ‘Medtherapy Labs’ – doubtless one of his never-ending advertisements for every variety of Pills-to-Cure-All-Your-Ills known to man.  On the outside of the envelope in large bold print, it said, “DO NOT BEND PHOTOS ENCLOSED”.  (Lack of comma their fault, not mine.)  I bent it ruthlessly right in half and stuffed it into my purse.  Loren grinned, and I wondered if he’d seen that notice on the envelope.  That would be his kind of a joke – to wad something all up that said DO NOT BEND!!! on the front.

Fortunately, his name was typed very small on both envelopes, and he didn’t have his reading glasses on (I always forget to see if he still has those things), so he probably hadn’t noticed that the junk mail was his, not mine.

Okay, let’s see what’s in this thick, bent, DO NOT BEND envelope.  >>...rrrrrrip...<<

Hmmm.  It’s an ad for a Cubii – you can pedal away while relaxing in your easy chair.

It must be free for the taking; there’s no mention of any price.  The phone number to call and order the thing is plastered all over the ad, though.  They figure once they get a gullible elderly person on the phone, he’s as good as sold.  Done hooked. 

Plus, there are several pages of ‘testimonials’ about AstaLIFE Liquid Caps.   They never tell you what’s in these miracle pills, but you will never again have osteoporosis, pain, fatigue, forgetfulness, wrinkles, inflammation, cardiac problems, macular degeneration, or unmitigated gall.  “It’s your Anti-Aging Savior!” blares one headline.

Ugh, that’s disgusting. 

Headline on next page:  “Will this work for you?”  The answer is in caps and bold red font:  YES.

There were no real ‘pictures’, only a booklet/magazine and a couple of flyers.

I managed to get the quantity of mailings like these cut down a little after we had Loren’s mail switched to our address a couple of years ago and I called several 800 numbers and/or returned any included free-postage envelopes requesting that the ads be stopped; but it picked up steam again when he went to the post office in a righteous huff and had his mail delivered again to his address – and then ordered several things from magazines like this. 

I had the mail sent back to our house as soon as I found out what he’d done, and thereafter snuck harmless pieces of junk and some nice magazines into his mailbox when he wasn’t looking, in order to keep him happy.

Fortunately, he never remembered to take all the Fountain of Youth pills he ordered; he could’ve killed himself with all that stuff!  I whisked away the large (and expired!) quantity of pills, powders, and liquids I found in his lower level when I was cleaning it last year.  Eeek.

The quantity of junk mail dropped again after we had Loren’s phone number changed so telemarketers could no longer call him.  Then after he moved to the nursing home and no longer could call them and order stuff, it lessened again.  But we still get a few really astonishingly inappropriate ads now and then.  Aiiiyiiieee.

Back to Saturday’s visit:

I pointed out an article in the Messenger Loren was looking at, concerning the emerald ash borer.  There was a close-up of one of the beetles, along with photos of dying trees.

Roslyn took a look and joined the conversation:  “Yes, the animals come down over that hill” – she pointed out the north window to a wooded rise, beyond which is Standing Bear Lake – “and there’s an ineffective cooperative.” 

Loren craned his neck and looked out the window to see this ineffective cooperation of intrepid insects which were doubtless descending mercilessly and maliciously upon our hapless pates right that instant.  Seeing nothing but courtyard and rising hill beyond, he looked blankly back at Roslyn. 

She waxed even more profound:  “The conglomerates of incumbency...” she waved a hand at the article.  “They haven’t found enough evidence,” she stated.  “It’s the annual termination of ...” she frowned, thinking hard.  “—where they migrate during alternative sessions.”

She meant ‘seasons’, most likely, seeing as how migration generally takes place during seasons, as opposed to sessions.  However, I reckon it’s possible that incumbent conglomerations migrate smack-dab in the middle of a session.  Glomerations can be rude like that.

Roslyn looked back at the picture of the beetle.  “My husband likes to—”  She lifted her hands to her face and mimed taking a picture. 

I smiled at her and nodded.  “I like taking pictures, too,” I told her.

She tried to tell me about her husband taking pictures of... two boys?  Their two boys?  I couldn’t tell, exactly.  I wonder, if she hadn’t spent a good part of her life conversing with all those big words, would she have an easier time, now?  She tries to say a simple sentence, and a long word jumps into the middle of it and muddles everything all up.

Come to think of it, short words do that to her, too.

She again pointed out the window, and started to say something about the hill – but she got the wrong word.  “They come over that bill,” she said, then stopped, looking slightly puzzled before giving a resigned shrug and going with the flow.  “Bill,” she repeated.  She made a circle with her hands.  “It’s like a cap,” she said, and gestured at Loren, who often wears a cap.

Loren looked at me, probably wondering if I was as mixed up as he was, trying to follow the conversation.

I went back to her remark about boys.  “You have two boys?” I asked.

She smiled happily, and nodded.  Then, “Well, in this instance, they have to be in conscience of the time lapsing...”  She petered out.

I tried one more time.  “How many children do you have?”

That got her reanimated.  “Oh, twenty or thirty!”

Loren looked at me again, starting to smile – I think he thought she was teasing.  But this time, I knew what she was talking about. 

“Students?” I asked, and she beamed.  I think she must’ve really loved teaching.

“Yes, twenty or thirty in a —” she made gestures to indicate the shape of a box. 

“Classroom?” I asked.

“Yes!” she smiled at me.  “Within walls.”  She frowned.  “During walls.”

I fished around in my feeble brain, and tried, “During a school year?”

Roslyn pointed at me, grinning.  “That’s extremely right!” she exclaimed.  “It continuously progresses until the diagram—”  She waved a hand at the newspapers on the table.

I said, “Huh,” in an intelligent tone.

She didn’t seem as well as she has during previous visits.  She was a little less talkative, almost a little sad.  But now I’m recalling that when Larry and I first met her, she was quiet and seemed a little bit sad, too.  We have thought that her friendship with Loren has made her happier.

Maybe it was difficult for her when he was gone for almost a week?  Or maybe her medication has been upped?  And of course the disease itself takes people downhill.  Dementia is a sad thing.

I showed Loren some pictures on Instagram with my phone; he very much enjoys that.  He particularly liked a video of Dorcas’ Baby Brooklyn, who has just learned to say ‘Da-da’. 

He was using the walker when I left.  He’ll doubtless lose it forthwith.  (Yikes, Roslyn’s got me doing it.)  (Naw, I’ve been doing it all along.  Tossing in big words, I mean.  I’ll probably sound exactly like her, one of these days.)  😐😕😵‍💫

As I headed toward the locked door that leads into the guest lobby, a small woman whom I haven’t seen before came scurrying along beside me, grinning and telling me, “I’m going home!”  She punched a jubilant fist into the air to punctuate the word ‘home’.  Her long, colorful vest swung merrily around her.

Uh-oh, I thought.

I stopped at the nurses’ counter, waiting for someone to a) notice me, and b) have a spare moment to come push the button to unlock the door for me.

The little woman practically jigged beside me.  “We’re going home!” she sing-songed in delight.

I hoped she didn’t climb into my purse, or something.

“Not yet,” I told her (it was becoming my AOTD [Answer of the Day]), leaning my arm on the counter, lolling against it, and crossing one ankle over the other as if I was planning to be there for the duration.

“Oh,” she said, momentarily standing still and looking me over.  Then, “It’s this way!” she announced, and skippety-doo-dawed down a hallway that led to one of the glass courtyard doors.  Her long, bright vest skipped along with her.

Remember Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies dashing pell-mell across the lawn of their pricey digs in Beverly Hills, leaping the shrubbery as she went?  That’s exactly what popped into my head as I watched her go.

I slithered down the counter far enough that I would be out of her line of sight, should she turn around and look my way, but still be in sight of any nurse who might show up.

One did, within seconds, apologizing for not noticing me sooner.  (Good thing she hadn’t, or Miz Roaring-Twenties Flapper might have flapped right out the door beside me.)  “That’s okay,” I told her.  “I blend in.”

She laughed at that.

I drove through a couple of strong thunderstorms with 60-mph winds on the way home.  Here’s the sandy Platte River, which I crossed several times as I picked my way to and from Omaha on various off-the-beaten-track roads. 

Sunday, Jeremy and Lydia gave us a two-pound bag of Scooter’s Blend coffee beans for our anniversary.  Listen to the description:  Dark chocolate, molasses, and dried berries.  That sounds really yummy.  They gave it to us at exactly the right time, because our last bag of coffee beans is partly gone, and we were afraid we’d run out before our order from Christopher Bean arrived.

They also gave us a gift card to Cracker Barrel, always appreciated during these days of weekly travel to Omaha.

I wrote them a thank-you email – and Outlook, which has upgraded the app, put a dashed purple line under the word ‘yummy’.  I rested the cursor on it – and was informed, “This term may strike your reader as too informal.” 

Haha  Satya Nadella, executive chairman and CEO of Microsoft, is gettin’ a mite hoity-toity in his dodderage.

I’ve been washing bedding and putting brand new sheets on the bed.  I bought sheets to match the pillowcases we got on our trip to Paducah, when we liked the pillows at the Best Western in Brookfield, Missouri, so much, we bought a couple of them.

Then, so that we wouldn’t get them mixed up with any motel pillows as we traveled, we stopped at the  Brookfield Wal-Mart the next morning and bought some pillowcases for them.

I liked these high-thread-count pillowcases so much, I bought an entire set of matching sheets and pillowcases.

I’ve also washed nightclothes, a fleece blanket, a large faux suede and Sherpa blanket, and, finally, the big Harvest Sun quilt.

Oh!  The dryer is playing its little tune!  I either need to reposition and re-wad the quilt (I have the dryer set on ‘Bulky Items’, and periodically a little melody plays to remind me to refold things and restart the drying cycle), or perhaps it’s dry now.

...  ...  ...  ...  ...

Okay, I’m back.  Did you miss me?

The quilt is alllllllllllmost dry.  Dry enough that I went ahead and put it on the bed.  It’s always pleasant to climb into bed (yeah, our bed is high; ‘climb’ is the right word for it) when everything is freshly laundered, from the sheets to the blankets right on up to the quilt itself.  The entire bedroom smells like fresh laundry.

No unscented laundry detergent for me, thank you very much.  😉

Bedtime!

,,,>^..^<,,,          Sarah Lynn         ,,,>^..^<,,,