Mouse in the House

Settling down to a quiet time, and who should appear? A mouse🐭 in my house! 🏠 Bill was out, so what could I do? Well, eventually, the mouse found his way to the inside of the window sill, and I shut the window, fiercely. 🎬 (I assume that's where he'd sneaked in.) I stepped out onto the porch to undo the somewhat loose screen and "encourage" him to leave. He did so reluctantly, climbing down the wall, but then, planted himself back on the outside sill, to recover from a wounded tail. 🐁 Of course, this brought to my literary children's dramatics mind, that I had acted much like "the farmer's wife, who'd" 🙍inadvertently, "cut off his tail with a carving knife."🔪 I felt a little remorseful, but eventually, he went away, though I did not "see how he runs".🏃

HAL

I just took a walk to de-stress after talking to V.W. phone "computers", ☎ wherein they told me what they were going to do, which I DID NOT authorize, so I started yelling, "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!" 🤦 into the phone. 📞 It's irrational to yell at a computer, but somebody must have heard me, because they called back, and I got a LIVE PERSON, 🤱 and we straightened the matter out. So, when she asked me, if there was anything else, I said, "Well, you could tell V.W. not to trust their computer phones to do it all. We need to talk to people directly." 🗣👤 I felt like my computer phone experience was similar to the interaction with HAL from "2001 Space Odyssey". 👩‍🚀 I don't remember exactly how that went, but it wasn't favorable from a human standpoint. 

Hard working People

In our neighborhood, it's always something. Today, it was down the tree, then, cut it to shreds; yesterday, it was tear up a roof, and rebuild it, then, others paint the window frames and sills of yet another house. In our town, there's construction all over, to get around or through. It's like everybody's trying to get things done while the weather permits. It sure has strengthened my belief in vocational education. I've seen a lot pride in their work. Hats off to the hard working people!

I watched this man take great pride in his paving, by hand.

                                         Dedicated, even when in the air...

Results

Clif and Me

  I  took a cue from Clif to check out "how to type on a typewriter", again. I ran into a blog from a writer*, on how he's returned to the manual, because he doesn't get distracted, and actually has to write. Furthermore, he notices that the computer makes it easier for people to make smart-ass remarks. 

                                                  There,Clif,I said it!                               

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It probably doesn't bring out the best in people, especially when they see what somebody says that makes them go through the roof. So, it becomes imperative to answer right away, and if the other commentator doesn't get it, go ALL CAPS, which I've noticed is also easier on the computer. I don't tweet, though I hear a lot about them, second hand. The responses to the tweets are even less becoming, using responses like, "Lard Head" (Just made that one up, though it might be a real thing), because there's enough insulting going on. Yes, just as we've returned to the turn-table, and actual records that are actually not as easy to lose in your entertainment center, with big pictures on the front, let's go back to the manual and become more private, shielded, uninformed, and consequently, nicer people. 
(*Credit goes to a writer by the name of Brian Drake.)

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Adventures in Cheesecake Pie Making. 🍰

You already know the recipe calls for sugar. You think, "Oh, he always has a store of sugar packets at home, so not a problem." When you go to check the sugar packets for the crust, you find....sugar cubes! 
"Who did the switch?" you complain, accusingly. "You did. You said they didn't have packets at the store." So, you pour melted butter on the sugar cubes, take the potato masher and with fury, mash mash mash! until there are no cubes. They've disintegrated into the crust. This time the cream blended pretty well, that is, the blender didn't have a loose bottom like before and pour all over the counter. 
The cheesecake, despite all obstacles, was successful, and got demolished.
Persist!👩‍🍳 

Typewriter in the Basement

I thank Clif for telling me about the typewriting videos. I couldn't figure out how to reverse the ribbon on the 1939 Royal, but one of the videos showed me how to do it. I think the ribbon still needs replacing, though. There was a certain satisfaction on the effect of typing on something like it once again with the noise it makes, and how nobody knows what you're thinking 2,000 miles away. Lest it seems as though I'm living in the past, I've got you on that one, as I'm rereading a metaphysical book that claims there is no time. So, I will dwell in whatever era I choose to at the moment and live there for the time being. If I disappear into the "Twilight Zone", don't come looking for me........I'm happy there.

 Went down to do the laundry and started typing on the Royal Typewriter, "clickety, clackety, clickety, clackety" Now, Bill saw a movie called "Burnt Offerings" 40 years ago, about a lady who becomes possessed by the spirit of an evil sorceress called Mrs. Alerdyce. So when I'm down there too long, he yells, "Mrs. Alerdyce!" I admit the typewriter does draw me in to itself. 👩‍🦳

I Remember Alan

                                                              

"In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You--only you--will have stars that can laugh!" And he laughed again. "And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me..." The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint Exupery

I love you, my dear brother: Alan Jon Fortney Nov. 18, 1938 - June 21, 2019

I Remember

I have a vague recollection of a goose approaching me, and I was scared and crying, and later, found out it was you who rescued me.

When I tried to put crayon marks on my face (which didn’t work) and tried to impersonate an Indian in a blanket, calling myself, “Me, Big Chief”, you guys ran to the top of the stairs.  I thought I’d fooled you with my disguise, and you said, “Oh, yes, we were fooled, but the Big Chief Indian is going to bed.”

I remember you impersonating the Tomte Gub, when I found no money in the glass in the bathroom, but also, no tooth.

You didn’t know another little boy was tormenting me at Stony Lake Bible Camp, and telling me my parents had left and were never coming back. So, I left him there in the camper and crawled into your lap at the mess hall. The campers were doing a puppet show, putting their heads through cardboard circles, and using their hands for feet.  When I went back, the little boy was anxious and worried and wondered why I’d left him.  I didn’t feel sorry for him…ever.

I remember when you fell down the stairs and broke your arm.  All I saw was a white spot, and Dad said, “He broke it.” And I remember when we visited you from the ground at Hackley Hospital, when you had polio, and you were talking to us from the upstairs window. 

I remember when we buried you in the sand on the beach in North Muskegon.

I remember you inviting me to the home movies, movies, and cartoons, and including me. You helped me watch “Winky Dink” on TV, trying to manipulate a plastic drawing that clung, so W.D. could parachute, but then, the picture moved.

I remember you shoveling manure or something for a garden on Prospect, and saying you were going to grow ponies.

I remember when you and Steve put Tomahawk in marking tape on your suitcases to hitchhike, and when you arrived, made Mom laugh uncontrollably.

I Remember (2) I remember when we went swimming in Crystal Lake, how we formed a pyramid, with you on the bottom, then, Laurel, then, me at the top.  I can’t remember how that turned out.                                        

I remember when you invited me to go with you to your girlfriend’s house, who was also my swimming teacher, and I tasted my first pizza.

I remember you talking to me a lot when you were at the University, and encouraging me, theatrically.

I remember you having me take milk of magnesia to “clean me out”, as I was in stomach pain.

I remember your articles in the Courier-Hub, and how Dad was so proud of them, he collected them in a scrapbook.

I remember you getting off the Greyhound Bus from Europe, smiling and waving, and we were so surprised your beard was red.

I remember walking with you, and you were wearing Lederhosen.

I remember singing with you and the guitar, for others, and also visiting people.

I remember calling you in Madison when I was feeling sad, and you told me to read Ian Fleming’s novel, DR. NO.

I remember calling you on your birthday, and you talking about my future, because you remembered me doing a song and dance routine in the Prospect Street basement.  And there were countless other advice giving sessions, like how we could get a house. You looked at our house, with a sparkle in your eyes, and claimed it was already ours.

I remember, before emails, Mom was worried about me not calling her. So, you called and heard me try to talk with laryngitis, and laughed.  So you could tell her I wasn’t really able to talk.

I remember when I was in the grocery store, getting a call on my cell, picking up my cell anxiously, when I saw it was you.  And you laughed. I always remember how you laugh, and most of all, how you always included me.

3) More memories:  

I think I was looking down the stairs at Sunday School at the church on Yuba Street, and you were telling me, excitedly, that Boots (the feral cat I’d picked up, I think) had 9 kittens. I made a “house” for them in a box, not knowing that they actually like boxes. After awhile, the cat and kittens disappeared. Maybe Mom and Dad gave them away.  So lately, I’ve wondered if that’s why you went to get our dog, Lucky.

I remember you played the flute, which I wanted to play, but I got pushed by a band director into playing the clarinet and never succeeded.  That was my first lesson that I should do what I want to do.

I remember when I went to visit you with Mom and Dad at your UW apartment where you lived with our other brothers.  I was wearing this caramel colored bouffant wig that could be turned into a hat.  Dad thought I’d dyed my hair, looked at me, and said; “oog!” when we informed him it was actually a hat.  I took it off, and you put it on, in its state of disarray, and typed on your typewriter.

I remember, later, you hid behind the kitchen door and had me find you before our wedding.

I remember never landing for Christmas, first to Madison, then, to LaCrosse, then, to Minneapolis, and you were coaching me on the pay phones all the way back.  You said, not to worry, the pilots kept doing this, because they were smart.

I don’t know if it was the same Christmas, but you came back from a basketball game, with an intent look in your eyes, stating that Alex broke his arm, like you had to remedy it.  Maybe that’s because you knew what that was like.

Christmas Eve, 2019: At church and on a walk, all I could think of was how I got a fur-trimmed coat from my parents for Christmas Eve. They insisted I sing in the choir, as usual for the service, which was in the balcony in the back, and I didn't want to. My now late brother Alan, was the only one who figured out and understood that I wanted to wear my coat in the sanctuary and told our parents. I don't know if he talked our parents into letting me skip or not. I think he did. First Christmas (Eve) without him. Love you and miss you, dear brother.