Dukes mixture
It takes a multitude of seeking to find what I need and sometimes no amount of seeking will bring to light the mislaid item. What this seeking does is bring to light many scraps of paper of various sizes and an array of colors with notations of ideas for columns and pages of unfinished columns that stalled in mid-flight.
Needless to say I didn't find the unfinished pages that I sought. I gave up on my plan to bring the unfinished column to a safe landing and turned to a fat wad of notes bursting out of a paperclip marked, "Dukes Mixture," which has given me fuel for this weeks column then I'll discard the pack.
While reading one typed note I laughed heartily. The sentence, "The change in my pocket wasn't enough to jungle." I've jingled money, jangled it, juggled it on paper, but I haven't had to jungle it.
It's not easy to remember back to why I wrote a quote from supposedly outer-space beings, and makes me wonder if I typed it in their language "eg; Wothout changfe thsi trould wudl ozon bea squozen." Translation; "Without change this world will soon be frozen."
I type in a language unknown to man, which caused a heap of trouble in the days I did my column on a typewriter that had a wwwwwwwwwwwwwww that did just that. Blessed are the inventors of computers with spell check. On to other ups and downs of my daily life.
I set a timer for many reasons. One is that I lose track of time when I'm into a column on the computer.
Confusion sets in when it buzzes. I can't remember if I set it to remind me to move the sprinklers, or if something in the oven is done, or downstairs the laundry is through with the wash cycle and ready for the dryer, or have I set it to remind me that I have 20 minutes before someone is to pick me up and will pull into the driveway.
Like a fly in a tizzy I check the oven, sprinklers, laundry and driveway and then remember I have a doctor appointment at the clinic.
Hubby and I, now in our golden years, which are not to be sneezed at, don't remember to wind the ten-day clock or flip the page of a calendar from the month passed to the current one.
No timer could be set to help us on those. We wait until we realize we haven't heard the chimes for days and are still referring to a month and dates long gone.
I'll turn the pages of the calendar back to when our grandchildren, now married with children of their own, came to our Yellow Bay home in July 1972 for a family reunion. These gatherings, full of fun and excitement, are tiring for the little ones and "Scooter" Scott, then four years old, was ready to be tucked into his sleeping bag that was outside on the lawn close to the house. I went with him and sat beside him as he crawled partway into his bag. He put his hands on my cheeks, looked into my eyes and said, "Let's talk, Nana." I waited until he was all the way in his bag then asked, "What would you like to talk about "Scooter?" He replied "Just things." I talked about the sun closing its eyes to turn day into night to make room for the moon to glow upon us. I pointed to the brightest stars in the darkened sky and brought forth our memories of wild flowers that we had picked that day, and of the birds we had seen during his previous visits with us.
The lack of response from our number one grandson gave me cause to look at him. Eyelids trimmed with long black lashes had closed out his day.
Later that evening laughter and conversation over, families that have not returned to their homes were scattered about the house and settled in whatever space was available for the night. Through the night-quiet a child singing, "Rain-drops are Falling on my Head" reached our ears. Jami, our 3 year old, number one granddaughter, had burst into song. From out of the darkness came a man's voice. "I hope raindrops aren't falling on your head, 'cos if they are there's a leak in the upstairs bathroom," her Uncle David's voice squelched her song.