Slings and arrows

So far at least this has been one of those weeks when I end up chasing my tail rather than accomplishing anything. So I haven't been spending my time mourning Ted Kennedy, just chasing my tail.

First of all it's been too wet and I'm tired of it. There are reports of six and more inches of rain in Wayne County and since this hilltop is about 10 minutes from Wayne County I assume we came close to that here on Wednesday-Thursday and the blessed sun still declines to shine.

The good news is I had the good sense to mow the lawn Monday and do a few more outdoor chores on Tuesday. The bad news is it's been too wet to be outside much since. I get cranky when cooped up. I want to pull weeds, plant something, take a hike. Haven't been able to do any of those things.

And then there was the container of milk that tipped in the refrigerator, spilling from top to bottom and resulting in too much time wasted with my head in the fridge crying over spilled milk while I cleaned that mess up. Why does spilled milk begin to smell, immediately? Think I've got that problem almost licked now, but still stick my head in now and then and sniff just to make sure. Must look very odd.

Then there's the battle between me and the critters for fresh tomatoes. So far, the critters are winning although I've had enough. Darned birds. Who knew mourning doves liked tomatoes? We've had a resident pair here for several years --- fun to have around but more stand-offish than the robins. First of the week, we had a mourning dove convention, something I've not seen before. Maybe it was tomatoes.

I got bogged down in the Fire-baptized Holiness Association, something I've been intending to write about for years since it is an interesting footnote to Lucas County history. But dealing with the holiness association and Brother Oliver Fluke means I have to reacquaint myself with holiness and Pentecostal theology and that gives me a headache. Since John Wesley's theories about entire sanctification set this whole thing off, I blame Methodists.

Finally, it was necessary to face the fact I'd promised to give a program on Native Americans in Southern Iowa in early September, something I know just enough about to be dangerous. It's not that I'm an expert, it's the fact I'm available and work cheap. It seems like a fairly simple topic, but it isn't.

But it did give me an excuse to get hooked again on one of my favorite small books about Iowa, Virgil J. Vogel's 1983 "Iowa Place Names of Indian Origin." It's one of those books that are a lot like eating candy --- you can't stop until you finish the whole thing. Fortunately, that doesn't take too long.

Maybe by the time I finish it, the sun will have come out and I'll be able to get something done.