I don't know about you, but I am having trouble dealing with my outside chores in this heat and humidity. The yard looks terrible. Soon I will be offering up grass hay for the taking, if I don't get out of coolness coming from the air conditioners in this old house. I am mentally exhausted just thinking about all that needs done. I must stop procrastinating. That's not as it should be.
As it happens every summer, a colony of feisty yellow-marked wasps (yellow jackets) nest in small holes beneath said ground cover. Last year several pierced my skin with their stingers and set my world on fire. That's when I found out that I could still dance. Bees don't discriminate, because of age and don't mind wrinkles. They lit here and there. I whirled around like a jittery bug and danced all the way across two yards and on to the medicine cabinet. The welts did give my long legs a new look, adding red and white to the wicked webbing of blue. However I wasn't feeling patriotic at the time. This year, I am not anxious for a repeat performance.
I ran across another snake sneaking around in this heat. I didn't have the heart to interfere with his travels this time. This gal doesn't kill snakes in hot weather, rather; I kill time! I did identify the strange looking wild birds foraging in the clearing across the way. Two young wild turkey "poults", green as the grass beneath their feet are venturing out of the brambles now and edging closer to the chicken pen. Me, the girl that was raised around a ton of turkeys failed to identify the bronze colored beauties when first sighted. I'm sure Dad would tell me that I am slipping. Once he called me his "official turkey tracer". My father's tame turkeys and domesticated wild turkeys knew freedom too. I gathered up their eggs and kids from nesting places many times. It was a game of hide and seeks that I enjoyed.
Paul received a good report from his doctor's at the VA, in regard to his latest surgery. Now there is a hearing problem. Gee, now he has an excuse for not hearing me when I speak. For crying out loud, I suppose its time to quit whispering sweet nothings in his tired ears, but the devil in me says say more! Why not?
Last week I got a call from a sister-in- law that lives in Morris Chapel, Tennessee. Lanny and Cheryl Sartor raise thoroughbred horses on their farm. She said that there is a shortage of hay in their state. In fact, if I can locate the bales that they need and a farmer willing to sell, they would gladly drive to Indiana to make the much -needed purchase.
I received e-mail from the Carlisle Correctional Facility this week. No, I am not corresponding with a lonely prisoner! My friend Nina Kistner is a teacher there. Ms. Kistner deals with social issues and other associated matters at the prison. She has been facilitating a class Thinking of Change for the last 11 weeks. Previously my friend worked with the homeless, in the State of Illinois.
Soon she will be in a brand new building that will house 70 work-release inmates. She said of her most recent graduating classes, "I think I have learned as much from them as they have--so many different personalities and talents. One inmate wrote an awesome poem that has been framed and will be located in the classroom of the new building."
The teacher said, "My night class just wants a simple graduation celebration, a cake and no speeches." She added, "Little they know I am going to give them a test on role plays, their least favorite thing."
Life at the facility is not quite like a stay in a posh rehab "retreat"-- as should be.
I am telling you about Nina, because the quite and good lady has made a positive difference in so many peoples lives and her own.
This week, the mother and grandmother will be training on sex offender management. To some of her charges, her work will lead to important steps toward their return to society, hopefully; when they leave toting lessons learned and indelibly etched in their minds for rest of their lives.
Nina deals with the ones who got caught. However some sex offenders don't have a location indicator on a map .So many never enter the doors of jail or of prison--they get by with it.
I personally don't think that the remains of little Billy Martin lie beneath the Meridian Street School, rather; I think that little fellow met up with a "so-called" friendly stranger, maybe the sort like the pedifiles that I mentioned. Could be a childless couple wrapped their empty arms around him and became new parents. Is he alive? Maybe-- there is no documented evidence that he is not. I know all the rumors that circulated at that time, and that's what they were; just rumors.
So, Linda, remember all of the good times that you shared with your little brother. It is a comfort that works for me when I become overwhelmed with sadness. I am sure that he knew or knows that your love will never die. God Bless you and I care.
I can be reached at 446-4852 or drop me a line to 613 N. Elm St., Brazil, Ind., 47834.