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Sunday, May 1, 2016

Brazil Buzz

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

(Photo)
On this beautiful Sunday afternoon, all is well on the home front. Paul underwent his eye surgery last Friday.

Dr. Dong Me Chen was satisfied with her precision work and his new look.

Now, if he can learn how to manage those chopsticks for the next few days; he will look as good as it gets for a while. He has the same problems with the right eye.

Today, I gave him tasty meals and handed him a great book to read. "The Red Badge of Courage" by Stephen Crane is a favorite of mine.

Besides, he must take it easy until his post-op appointment and listen to his caregiver.

There is so much to do this month. This nice weather allows us to move forward with those outdoor chores , during the absence of the usual winter woes.

The light bill reflects the energy saving changes that we made. The monthly cost is less than average.

The oil furnace is not working as hard either. No rock salt, thus far, is chewing up the walkways around here.

But, I know and you know that our luck is about to change.

Come around the third week of this month and into most of February and/or March there will be times when we will be braving the elements to stock up on the rations and pulling out the most fleecy lined outer- garments that we can find.

Whether we like the weather or not, folks are not dumb where we come from.

Indiana born folks always know how to dig ourselves out of a bad situation.

Last night, a bad situation woke me up from a deep sleep. Truth is, Paul and Tootie Mae aroused me from a nightmare in progress that could have possibly caused a heart attack or stroke.

This old heart was about to break, and my dizzy dome was spinning out of control.

The bad dream has been reoccurring since I was a child of five or six. Usually this happens to me when I am ill or stressed because of other reasons.

I find myself locked up in the dimly lit root cellar that once was situated under my childhood home.

I see the room with the musty smelling earthen floor cluttered with bushel baskets of cool, crisp Jonathan and Winesap apples and old stone wine jugs with corncob stoppers.

I see rows of home grown canned goods in green, amber and clear Ball and Mason jars and wooden barrels full of empty containers.

I see large home cured hams wrapped in white greasy gauze suspended from the native beams hanging from the ceiling with thin, braided hemp ropes.

I smell the Morton curing salt mixture and the pungent odor of bunches of dry yellow and white onions hanging by their side. I stumble against the bins heaped high with spuds, against the Brazil brick lined walls.

The flame in the smoke coated globe of the lantern flickers as if the there is a draft or the container is running short of kerosene. I worry about spiders, snakes and the devil's wrath.

The flickering flame lighting my space fizzles out. I cry out for help, but no one comes to my rescue.

I fish for the rusty knob on the entrance door just beyond the steps that leads to the back porch and the heavy cellar door topside.

It appears to be locked. I scream, but the words struggle to exit my mouth.

I am trapped in the darkness. I hear noise coming from the farthest corners of the crawl space beneath the closed- in back porch. I freeze and pray at the same time. I wanted to die and get it over with.

When Paul woke me up I, indeed, had been crying and more; I was shaking like the last leaf clinging to a branch of a dead tree on a windy day.

The only trouble with this nightmare is that really did happen to me.

Some things never go away they just keep coming back to haunt us and wrestle with our minds.

It is surprising what we seniors can remember during our quiet times. I am not so sure that is therapeutic though.

There are times, like last night, when forgetfulness can come in handier.

Today, I feel somewhat better and since I sat down at this piece of electronics and connected with you, my readers -- I am doing OK.

Thanks to the thoughtful people that helped Paul with his car issues last week.

I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by e-mail at pamsarq@frontier.com.