Grandma Siner's vintage earthenware birdbath sure is a crowd pleaser.
Hummingbirds are frequent visitors to the front porch of the little blue house at the end of the road. The amaryllis that wraps around the wrought-iron corner posts is in full-bloom.
The rider is in the shop and the garden tiller lost ground about the same time.
Our Huskee tiller that my dad gave us just celebrated its 18th birthday and then had a nervous breakdown. The vibration was more than its bearings or the operator could stand.
Just when I was feeling all of this gloom and despair, one of those nocturnal animals that I have a love relationship with, most of the time, came onto the back porch last night and tore into my patient tomato and pepper plants. He or she destroyed far more than a mouthful of the homegrown beauties wrapped in moist newspaper like Mr. Rader, our plant provider, preferred for transport, back in the day.
The four-legged critter failed to tip the galvanized bucket or dump the remaining thirst-quenching water in the bottom, but mutilated the best of the plants.
It must have been a hot night for some around here. Someone was burning plastic or something.
Maybe a house fire was close by. The acrid smoke filled the air. We went outside to investigate the thereabouts of our property. Our eyes were burning. Coughing ran a close second.
We, as of yet, do not have our air conditioning units in place. We had no choice, but to close the windows, save this freshly laundered curtains, and more importantly -- our eyes and lungs.
If the smoke came our way from a house fire, that could not be helped. If it came from an illegal burn smoldering beneath the night sky, you could have been found out and your further irresponsible actions could lead to a fine.
I wanted to call the fire department last night to see if they knew what was going on. I did not, for good reason. I might have blocked a report more pressing.
Now I have complained about everything under the sun and moon.
Our daughter Starla and her husband Bruce May are vacationing in Europe, the Mediterranean area.
Yesterday, they were in the middle of the sea, sightseeing, sunning and sailing toward Croatia. She is visiting some of the places that her father visited while serving aboard the USS Des Moines CA-134 during his first tour of duty with the United States Navy. He did not see Croatia, however.
She loves Milan and Venice most of all. My grandson Michael heard via cell that his mother and Bruce are having a wonderful time.
I read on Facebook that during a flight stop, she forgot to watch out for aggressive pigeons at St. Marks.
Her legs may or may not scar. I heard that pinching is popular over there and pecks are reserved for the cheeks. But what do I know?
Paul and his brother Roy Sartor, Farmersburg, served on the same ship at the same time. That was and is very special to them. Paul was a personnel man/records keeper and Roy was a gunner's mate. Schooling in Bainbridge for Paul separated the boys for a time.
This spring, Roy's doctors, at Richard L. Roudebush VA Medical Center, Indianapolis, informed him that he has lung cancer, third stage.
The cancer has spread to the lymph nodes. His heart is not working to its full potential, either.
Monday, "Little Roy" will be admitted to said hospital for a six-week stay, where he will undergo chemo and radiation treatments.
It would mean a lot to us, his family, if you could say a prayer for our loved one.
Roy has friends in our community. He worked as a molder at Midland Glass in Terre Haute for many years. He and his son Jeff Sartor are racecar enthusiasts, familiar faces at Lincoln Park Speedway and other tracks in the area. He and his long time companion, the late Mary Fern Stewart, enjoyed many camping trips with folks from this area as well.
I have known Roy Sartor for 55 years. To know him is to love him. Though not of my blood, proudly affirmed, he is my brother and I care.
Now I must quickly figure out the evening meal. What and how much to fix has been on the back burner all afternoon.
Fried chicken just came flying out of my head. Homemade potato salad and baked beans will fill his plate this evening. I do not eat beans on Sunday. We may have company later.
The meal would not be complete without just a few of Tristand Tucker's delicious fresh strawberries sprinkled with a granule or more of sweetener. A full scoop of vanilla ice cream. Sounds like a winner.
I have it covered.
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.