Update of the update

I had started a blog entry on Sabbath (it's the one called "All Kinds of Changes Happening"), and stopped to help Ian make pancakes, but didn't get back to it until now. I had gone to take our new dog, Nicky, out for a walk and she slipped past me at the door and would not come back to me (we'd only had her overnight). I went to the Eisenhardts' and found her there but she still wouldn't come to me. Ian and I walked and drove all over but didn't see her again, so I e-mailed and phoned people and we went on to church, hoping that she would come back later. Half-way through church, my cellphone vibrated, so I ducked out and answered it. It was Nicci Graves, telling me she had found her a couple miles down VanderMark Road and had put her in our house. Of course she let Nicci walk right up to her, at that point.
Since then, we've kept her on a leash or in the house and we're hoping she'll settle in with us. She's quite sweet, but LOVES to run, and doesn't seem to be afraid of any other animal -- only of humans (she started out at a farm, and the third owner says she was afraid of anyone with a hat at first). After the farm, she stayed in Angelica with the mother of the guy we got her from. He lives in Canaseraga. She's only five, but has already had quite a life, we gather. We all took a hike on Sunday on the trails, and she was ready to mix it up with the dog three times her size, that came by with its owners, and would have charged the four horseback riders we encountered, too, if I hadn't held her back. There are pictures of us with her at the Shutterfly link I sent to all of you, in the "Clarkes Latter 2007" album. Right now, she's curled up at my feet . . .
Last week I was trying to battle a cold (and it got the better of me for several days), but I worked some on preparing to make a foundation so we can close in under our west porch. Have any of you heard "An un-medicated cold lasts a week; a medicated one only seven days"? I'm trying to finish that up this week, along with hanging sheetrock in our "new" bathroom downstairs, and get wood stoves ready for the season. I've still got to get the chainsaw ready so I can start cutting and splitting wood for the stoves. And make meals and do some cleaning and try to generate some income . . .
Thursday morning of last week I woke up having been dreaming that Woody Allen was in Alfred and had bought a place. We were both at the Old West Food Company bar, talking, and I offered to check on the place for him while he was elsewhere, and he said something like "lets look at these insurance policies" and turned to do something on his i-Book. Then there were lots of young folks doing some some sort of drinking game, and I woke up . . . so I'm rubbing elbows with famous people in my sleep, at least. I'm working on a poem that was partially formed another morning when I awoke, about the old homestead at 33 S. Main.
On Sunday evening just past, we were invited over to Donna and Keith Rogers' house, as we often are when her mother is in town. When we got there, I talked with Frances about Dad and she said she was sad to have missed him several times when she's visited, because of him being in SC, etc. We talked about how it was John who called us the "Walking Clocks" and Mel picked on him for it. She reminded me about Bert and Don running together for a while, and we talked about Mary Wells and her Dad, and about Mary's brother who died. Did any of you know him? Would he have been Paul Hummel, Jr.? Anyway, she said Mary had to be the boy of the family, as a result. She recollected that Dad and Paul went hunting and I reminded her of Dad riding up to take salt to the cattle at glacier elevation. I need to write Mary a long letter, and Bucky, too. Frances said Mary was the only one left who remembered the Boulder folks taking down the rock and windows and everything, from the first S.D.B. Church that was on Broadway, and moving it all to Arapahoe and Ninth by the wagonload, and setting it back up. It was good to get to reminisce with her and Donna. There are pictures I took of her and the others, at the Shutterfly site.
Today our ambulance was toned to Doris Simpson's house, as the Meals On Wheels deliverer had found her on her porch, having fallen. He helped her up and apparently reported it to someone else, who called 911. Once we have been toned, we are required by law to find her, evaluate her, and either transport her to a hospital or get her to sign off. Doris was in Dad's class or the one after his, in school.
Her house is really full of stuff and it's a wonder she gets around. The last time our ambulance was toned, she got embarrassed and angry and the police tried to get Social Services involved. She was embarrassed again today, but relented to being carried out (there was no way we could get a gurney or anything in there) by me, after her heart was checked and her doctor called.
I shudder to think of what's in store. Her nearest relative is a brother in Colorado, and there are things in her house that were our Cousin Floy's (Doris has told many times how when Floy died there was someone skimming her diaries and tossing them into a burning barrel and laughing). Floy was an "odd bird" who had lots of animals and lots of rumors spoken of her, but she was Mary Veola Kenyon's niece, Forrest Babcock's daughter, and I have a few of her things, including pictures of her. Floy's house on Reynolds Street was originally willed to Gram, but a later will left it to someone else, and it's now one of the ones the Simpsons own and operate as student housing. So I'm going to write to her brother and see what can be done and what arrangements have been made, as her health is quite uncertain right now. I can too easily see someone hired to clean out her house, laughing and tossing Doris' things into a barrel. And today is her birthday.

More soon.