He's BAAACk!

Stalkerman (not mine, mom's) is going to strike soon, I just feel it coming.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

Last November I needed to borrow a book from my daughter for my flight home from AK; I took “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle” because I’d read a few pages, discovered it held the anguish of miscarriage, and decided my pregnant girl did not need sad scary thoughts swirling through her mind during that long stressful time.

I read more on the long wait on an Anchorage bench, backpack under my neck, reading and sleeping and listening for the reverberating, comforting ‘dong’ of their hourly airport clock. I read the whole flight home, though at times I had to hide my tears facing the clouded window and wiping my face raw with countless rough paper towels.

Once home, I slid the book under the couch, having reached what I thought was the apex, the ultimate heart-wrenching scene—I would have to wait until later to muster up courage to finish the end. My emotions needed a break from this boy, his family, and dog.

I hadn’t thought of the book for many months and couldn’t find it until this week—at the KC airport in June a Delta agent called forth a Korean gal named “Almondine” making me nearly gasp at the name and torturing me with the need to complete this book at once. And if found, I’d finally get to watch young Edgar enact his revenge, to accuse the guilty, become vindicated and whole—and so I’d feel the ultimate relief of an incredible book while finally consoling my heart.

I re-read it entirely, clear to that throat-tightening scene and then continued until it was done. Until I was done.

So unexpected—no. Nope. I shake my head. I keep thinking if I pick it up again and go back to the final chapters the words will rearrange themselves and the REAL ending will form. I was tired after all. I didn’t comprehend correctly. It should be arranged dictionary-like and formulaic where each precise scene remedies the previous and eases the grieving, smooths soothes softens the chest-crushing pain. These chapters can’t be possible when the end was actually quite clear in my mind—I KNEW what would happen, I thought. I’m not prepared for the twist.

Online, some of the reviews gave commentary like: ‘psychological insight and lyrical mastery’; ‘comforting joy of a book’; ‘enchanting debut’; ‘big mesmerizing read’; ‘reluctant to put it down’; ‘stunning, elegant’; ‘completely smitten’; ‘hauntingly impressive’; ‘rare and wonderful’; ‘will leave you crying for more....’

Let me evaluate. ‘Stunning’-yes, nearly a shock to the soul. ‘Insightful’-yes, in a bigger way than you can ever imagine. ‘Smitten’? Not a word I’d use in this case. ‘Smitten’ implies a cute girl, your new Cabbage Patch dolly, the joy of a matchbox car or fuzzy sweater—something causing joy or warmth—I doubt this person dwelled much or even caught an inkling of that current of grief streaming through these pages. (Shallow skimmer/cheater!) ‘Lyrical’-yes, descriptions beautiful and I loved the passages about ‘words’. ‘Impressive’-yes, ‘haunting’-yes. 'Comforting'-no.‘Rare and mesmerizing and elegant’-yes. ‘Enchanting’-yes/no-many parts are, yet enchantment also seems a ‘smiling’ word.‘Will leave you crying for more’? Yet I read no words to describe the clenching of one’s jaws or the inability to swallow as one steadily blinks back tears.

I guess I am ignoring the beauty of this book at the moment, in despair for Edgar's mother. Sadly, the word ‘crying’ will suffice.

To and From Homer...

...there's an Alaska story here, but just no time to write it!

Ladder Ballet/Clutz

When I got home from work today it was really freakin' hot, so I went out back to see if any garden tomatoes needed a drink from the hose. I was shocked to see 2 of my cherry trees had plenty of already ripened fruit. NO! NOT YET! Stay green for a couple more days--I have other things to do around the house before I am committed to cleaning and pitting YOU! Its a wreck!
Rats--I've slept after work almost all week. Knowing that I was to get one of my spine injections Thursday, I was not allowed to take drugs for the previous 5 days--and I started getting a killer ear-ache on Monday. By Tuesday evening and all day Wednesday, I was feeling rather chilly/sweaty, so I finally got some Bactrum on Wednesday eve.
(Shhhhh. That's a secret!) I didn't tell the nurse at the hospital that info when I went ahead with the shot on Thursday afternoon! But I feel great today--it only hurts a little when I bend!
However, I did get up at 4:00am Wed and Thurs, when the Briglet goes to work--so I could go to work too and then leave a little earlier. Hmmmm--in my state of sleepiness and the heat and that new shot, should I pick cherries or not?

I got a 1/2 bucket standing on the metal rung ladder wearing wet flipflops when I felt like it wasn't the wisest choice in the world to be sliding around like that. Plus the pair of sweat shorts I put in had lost their elastic and pulling them up with 1 hand just wasn't working.
I put on good decent shoes with traction and some long jean shorts to be safe. HA! No sooner had I climbed back up when I felt the ladder start to slide over sideways--like very slow motion. I calculated that I could get one foot on the top of the chain-link fence pole if I were lucky, and I was. I don't know how I managed to get BOTH feet on the top of the fence, but I did, still holding the bucket and a small branch like Tarzan. or a monkey.
Unfortunately, when my feet came down on the fence, they quickly slid on the green raspberry leaves that are covering the metal and I ended up with my butt on the bar (and pulling the poor tree over sideways)--whew! The neighbor guy has his garden of tomatoes and potatoes right in front of me...please don't fall forward and ruin his plants. Whew. So I sat there and looked around like a bird, burst out laughing and prayed no one had seen my graceful fall. But I saved the cherries--and my back. I think.

Photo Thief.

Succumbing to the equivalent of a lowly dumpster diver searching for supper, I've pilfered this picture from my daughter's Picassa, if only to easily/lazily update my blog with little thought process required, but mainly to show off such a darling photo of a baby and his daddy...
Yes, I shall also steal HER headline "The Boat Cab, the Captain, and the Bilge Rat". Oh, Grandma...shame. I doubt I would of thought of calling Emery a rattus rattus.

Classmate.

Hmmmm. You never know what you'll find cruising the back alley of Google...looks like a classmate of my daughter's. What the heck?! I wonder if many of the youth who've been under suspicion for local thefts...are possibly off the hook now?

Creepers.

Some youth in the area introduced me to a new word recently: creeper. In the old days, I think we called them just ‘creeps’ or ‘creepos’, as in “That guys a real creepo.” (At first, when I heard their word, I thought they’d said ‘keeper’ instead of ‘creeper’!) BIG difference. BIG.

Not many creepers have shown their faces lately—or else I’ve been indoors too much to notice. Hippy Bill quit working at my local coffee/gas station, so it seems rather sad—no one I can really talk to if I need to run over for a cup of ice: I’m lacking in area gossip and his episodes dealing w/ local characters.

I probably shouldn’t go looking for trouble anyway, now that I’m a grandmomma and all! Sorta changes your way of thinking. Previously—well, before Christmas-- I’d sort of run my mouth with just one sentence, thus exposing myself to an individual in one of my previous stories….someone who has been referred to as “Charles Manson Man”.
This guy (I will call him ‘Holiday’) was someone I’d seen occasionally since I was roughly 16 years old. Puppy-dog deep brown eyes--quite nice. Quite. Of course, I ‘d always kept this tidbit of info to myself as I’d no idea who the guy was—just that he always seemed a bit ‘dangerous’. He exuded an “I’m not an approachable person unless you wanted to end up in jail with me tonight…and it will probably be a felony” aura. Chills and Thrills! Cute! With long hair….mmm. But even other guys at parties avoided him except for a specific group…

Last summer I’d asked “Who exactly is that guy?—and when I displayed shock about his ‘Manson’ nickname, I was told “You’ve never seen him angry—when his eyes look like Manson—it’s scary!”….

What made me speak out after so many years of subdued interest—was the hair thing. (NO! I would never of gone anywhere with ‘suspect in missing woman case and she’s probably in a well or the river’ man.) I was standing around talking to Hippy Bill and I noticed a person getting gas that looked vaguely familiar. Since I was on drugs that month—that lovely pain-killer, lower-back medicine—vague being a key word… all of a sudden the door opened and beautiful brown-eyed guy stepped inside. I looked back and gasped with dismay: “YOU CUT OFF ALL YOUR HAIR!” That’s it. No big deal. Just that sentence. But I’d never spoke to him before (based on hearsay and the advice/tales of many). When I told cop-friend about Holiday later, he told me I was out of my mind and that I’d find him on my doorstep within a few days.

Holiday looked over with a raised eyebrow and blurted a few near-suggestive comments before he left—Hippy Bill was very curt with him …and I reassured cop-friend that someone with such a limited amount of damaged brain cells squandered in their skull would never remember the incident 2 minutes later--as their mind only retains crucial relevant information, like: ‘alibis’ and ‘bondsmen’ and ‘who dealt what with whom’ and ‘how much’ and ‘how many grams’.

Still, I would not consider this person a ‘creeper’. I’ll have to think of another category!