At last we’re getting outa town. Seems endless, the process of tooling up to leave. But I think that both Lydia and I have done our diligence…and if not, too bad. Today’s the day.

Yesterday I weeded flower beds, took food to the soup kitchen pantry, tidied the domicile. Today I woke at 3:00, hopped out of bed, started on kitchen and laundry. Did dishes, scrubbed the floor, started laundry, took out trash. Gasp, cough.

I never want to leave. Don’t want to go. Put it off as if it were a death sentence. Then, finally, I make a desperate dash out the door, and once on my way, feel like, “Whee!!!”

It’ll be the same thing when we’re about to leave the farm. I’ll groan and moan, make a federal case out of doing final chores. The thing is…once out the door, once on the way, I’m all happy-happy-joy-joy.

I checked weather in the farm’s zip code. For the next ten days it’s supposed to be rain every day but two and temps between 55 and 76. Is this attractive? Well…I don’t know. One summer when we got there, we right away had to go out and buy warm clothes. Living in southeastern Virginia it’s easy to forget how it feels to live where people sleep under quilts year-round.

Will I be able to do my blog at the farm? Theoretically. I do pay for broadband internet, cable TV and digital phone. The problem is that the electric and phone companies there are marginally functional, always have been. Tiny power outages throughout the day, that’s how it goes. A bird sits on the power line? Brief blip in the electrical supply. No kidding. Very primitive.

Venango County, Pennsylvania, is one of the poorest places in America. There are no jobs for young graduates. Who lives there? A few old people, disabled citizens, those who after generations of this, know how to survive on nothing…and a handful of others. In the entire country there are fewer than 60,000 living souls. If I’m out of the loop while there, if I produce no blog posts, you’ll realize that I’m off the map in third world America, in the big woods, worried about bears on the back porch.

Performer Boots Riley, the one that got booted at Boogaloo Bayou Festival, the one who yelled a variant of the f-word…he’s mad and fighting back.

Here’s what he says in his defense. He contends that he only got in trouble because he’s black. By intimidating potty-mouthed “artists”, by forbidding curse words from the stage, the city of Norfolk is trying to discourage black people from attending public concerts. That’s what he said.

Well, now. If I were black, that would make me mad. According to this fellow, black people only go to events which feature dirty talk.

Excuse me? On my block, I’m the only white homeowner. And all of my neighbors, without exception, are the kind of people who pay attention to the niceties. I have never, ever heard one of my black neighbors erupt into potty talk. Not one time.

My neighbor to the left is extremely fussy about language. Once, sitting on my porch, I watched her walk by the apartments across the street. A young fellow on one of the porches over there said to her, “Hey, bitch.” He won’t do that again. She gave him such a tongue lashing…using all nice words…that she probably scarred him for life.

My neighbor to the right is so respectable that she makes me look bad.

A family one house away, that dad is Mr. Fussy. When they first moved in, he knocked on my door, introduced himself, “Ma’am, my wife and I work hard, and we’re very caring parents. We want our kids to grow up right. If you ever see my kids involved in something they shouldn’t be doing or saying, I’d appreciate if you’d let us know. I don’t want my kids to talk trash, do trash, or be trash. I want them to be proud, educated, and able to contribute. Please, if you witness something that needs my attention, tell me.” And with a dad like that on the job, you realize that I’ve seen nothing but good behavior.

Who are these black people who only enjoy dirt? They don’t live near me, that’s for sure. My neighbors are the type that if Boots Riley came along our street, spouting his nasty talk, somebody would take issue with him right quick.

Had to laugh. About the man who tested six times over the legal limit when arrested for erratically driving his wheelchair.

I’ve always said that if I ever get arrested, I want it to be for something fresh. Why rob a bank? Why assault an officer? Those have been done to death. This fellow now has a rare and exotic DUI citation to frame.

What still counts as the frontier of misbehavior? Don’t know, but I’m guessing that there aren’t too many tricyclists with DUI’s. You might go for that one. I used to own an adult tricycle. Saw it out front of a sheet metal shop with a for sale sign attached.

Upon inquiry I learned that the shop humored a retired man who made extra bucks by fixing bikes he found at the curb on trash day. The sheet metal shop let this old boy use their premises, responded to customers on his behalf.

I asked, “How much?” The store guy said, “It’s been here for months with no takers. Could you go as far as a hundred dollars?” I could and did.

Later I took it to the middle school where I taught. That tricycle became one of my many rewards. The first child to correctly complete an unusually tough assignment was allowed to select a friend to ride in the basket. These two then cruised the upstairs hallways until I yelled, “Whoa.” Other teachers raged at me over such foolishness. I ignored them. Kids did miracles of hard work in order to ride my trike. If I still had that trike, I could loan it to you for your personal shot at fame as the first drunk tricyclist. Unfortunately, when I retired, I gave my trike to a fellow teacher.

Another toy I personally enjoyed as well as used for reward rides…something called The Green Machine. It looked like one of those cars used for races that end with a drag-parachute. Long, low, and lean, it went…even pedal-powered… like a rocket. I loved it and it would make a great run for the record….first motorist ever arrested for drunkenly driving a kid’s toy down Colley.

Since I no longer have the Green Machine, and since I’m too old and chubby to ride one if I bought another, you’ll have to locate your own equipment…I’m just suggesting.

Have I lost my mind? Am I promoting drunken and dangerous behavior? Uh…well. All I’m saying is that the old man in the wheel chair probably had one heck of a good time getting into trouble, and he didn’t hurt anyone. If you’re looking to whoop it up some weekend this summer, don’t get in the car. Grab your kid’s tricycle…or big wheel…pogo stick…something like that.

At my house there’s no excuse for a child getting into mischief. I have lovely toys upstairs and down. The video games are excellent. The Barbies, with their clothes and accessories, are numerous. Lots to see and do.

So it’s hard to explain kids getting into trouble other than to say, “They just want to.”

Yesterday afternoon my dear grandchildren were here and they had lots of fun. Used to their antics, I paid no attention. Then it got quiet. After a bit of time passed and I still heard nothing, I went to see. Benny was on the red sofa, beside him, a box of Kleenexes. On the floor nearby, T-Bone. All over the place…piles and piles of torn up Kleenex. I gasped, but otherwise kept quiet.

Benny handed a Kleenex to T-Bone who tore it up. Then Benny shredded one and chuckled, showed T-Bone. Then T-Bone’s turn. They shredded a whole box of super-soft, Aloe infused tissues. Seeing me, Benny cheerfully remarked, “I’m helping T-Bone have a good time. He loves this.”

I must be the worst Grandma in town. Any normal adult should have inspired guilt in a child so occupied. Benny, on the other hand, seemed to think I’d be happy to know that he made life more fun for T-Bone…by tearing up Kleenexes.

This morning, after getting the kids occupied, I announced, “Everyone behave. I’m going to take a bath and get dressed.”

Sadie inquired, “You mean take a bath with no clothes on?”

I replied, “Help me decide. Maybe I should keep my clothes on.” She told me not to be silly.

So I fired up the bubble solution, added some lavender, submerged myself in fragrant suds and relaxed for a minute. Bad idea. It was too quiet.

Once dressed and downstairs, I heard nothing. Tippy-toed into the dining room. There were Benny and Sadie. They had spread a quilt over a large storage stool. At “places” around the edge, Sadie was carefully creating piles of salt and pepper from shakers on the dining room table. Looking up and seeing me, she beamed happily and invited, “Come on, Ahno. We’re having a salt and pepper party. You can sit here,” pointing to a spot she’d already supplied. No guilt. No fear. I say again…there’s something wrong with me. Why didn’t they jump guiltily when I showed up?

Still didn’t leave for the Pennsylvania mountains. Yesterday on the phone with the caretaker, I learned that my hot water heater had been struck with lightning. He’ll call when the new one’s ready to go. Sigh.

Meanwhile we’re entertaining ourselves as best we can…tearing up Kleenex and serving piles of salt and pepper.

My Chihuahuas eat kibbles made for toy-sized, indoor-living dogs. These kibbles wait in a plastic container on the floor by the dogs’ bowls. By day’s end each little dog has consumed about three-fourths of a cup of the stuff.

The odd thing is that month after month, year after year, the Chihuahuas remain deeply enthusiastic about those same plain little kibbles.

When I brought Porque Choppe home, the vet at Cat and Dog Hospital told me, “Feed her dry food, no changes, no treats. She won’t be able to digest yummy dog snacks.” Ignoring this advice led little dog and me to an emergency run late one night. It only took one scare. Since then I stick to that dull food, wondering, “Why do they love it so much?”

We make our first trip outdoors sometimes around 4:30-5:30 A.M. After this quick potty break, each dog gets a pinch of kibbles in his/her bowl. While I reach into the kibble container, Porque Choppe stands up and stretches her little nose over the edge, quivering with eagerness. T-Bone stands back and waits but he’s licking his lips in anticipation. As the kibbles hit each bowl, both dogs dive passionately into their food and wolf it down in seconds.

This scene repeats later in the morning when we return from our long walk, then again around noon, at about three P.M., at my dinner time, and again at bed time. They get plenty of food, but they act starved, are always madly eager, every single time. You’d think those kibbles were made of filet mignon.

I ascribe this enthusiasm to Chihuahuas’ investment of themselves in the moment. All dogs like to sniff, but a Chihuahua will practically inhale his/her environment. Being patted, a Chihuahua closes its eyes and assumes a look of ecstasy. Mad at their mortal enemy the postal carrier, my Chihuahuas rage as though that good soul spent her spare time axe murdering puppies. Sleeping, both Porque Choppe and T-Bone roll over on their backs, all four paws in the air, and snore, moan, groan, thrash, sniff. They’re active sleepers. Whatever they do, they’re entirely in the game.

At one point yesterday I reflected on the difference; I eat a great variety of things…the dogs eat the exact same thing all day every day. Unsatisfied, I seek new tastes and textures. In contrast, the Chihuahuas are thrilled to eat dreary old, dry old kibbles every single meal forever.

A while ago, when this Hampton Roads.com thing was new, my family’s Lydia began a blog about home schooling. She maintained her blog for over a year. During this time, repeatedly, she urged me to join her.

I didn’t want to get involved for several reasons. One…I didn’t think I’d have anything to say. Two…I have a short attention span and although I start a lot of activities, I quit in a hurry, too. Three…I didn’t think anyone would read it. Eventually, though, I decided to take a stab at it, believing that the venture would have a brief life. That was a year and a half ago.

I, myself, am surprised that there’s still something to talk about. Partly, I suppose, this is a function of my Welsh heritage. According to the English, Welsh persons can’t shut up. Might be something to that.

Asked where I get ideas, I have no answer. Basically, although my body is less functional as time goes on, the inside of my head ticks over OK. I am, and always have been, interested in just about everything.

Example: As a young person I remember being invited to a dinner party. The hostess, ahead of time, sighed and said, “I’ve also invited Mr. ******. Unfortunately, he’s so pathologically shy that he’ll be silent the whole evening. I doubt he’ll even look anyone in the face.”

This challenged, I made a point of researching the man’s interests, which...it turned out…had exclusively to do with oil exploration. By the end of that evening Mr. ****** not only talked, he babbled like a mad man, pouring out his heart about the oil industry…and I found it fascinating stuff.

There’s no such thing, to me, as a boring subject. Given half a chance, I’ll give anyone the third degree, relentlessly asking questions about ideas, areas of expertise, knowledge, and interest.

Why am I still interested in blogging after a time period during which I took up and quit several other endeavors? I don’t know. Mostly, It’s like I’m talking to you. I imagine the readership as a vast, friendly group of people with fairly similar values. Although some of you get mad and bite me to the bone from time to time, we all are home/family/pets/God, and country oriented…at least to some extent.

This blog is like I sat down near you with a cup of coffee and said, “Hey, have you noticed…. What do you think about that?” And you told me what you thought and then asked, “What do you think?” This blog would be the answer to that question.

Would you like to blog? I see that there are now 64 Virginian Pilot blogs, but they’re always on the lookout for other points of view. Give it a try.