I am, at least, back to something that passes for a normal writing schedule, but only because I’m getting up at 4 a.m. again and only because R. has started going to bed earlier. Yesterday when I got caught in the van in the Office Depot parking lot in a torrential rain, I just turned off the wipers, turned off the engine, tuned out the world, and put my head back for awhile.

Not so much anything wrong as too much. Actually my writing for work is coming along nicely, I’m doing some interesting reading with a friend, and R. has been (all together now, knock on wood) in a good mood. She liked some Johnnie Depp movie so much the other day (“Public Enemy,” I think), that she had me immediately start it over for a second viewing, which, in retrospect, may have been a ploy to eat more popcorn.

So, all is well here. Still pouring down rain, which makes a wonderful sound on the roof. Not a bad soundtrack for a day at the computer.

(No further word on the Empress, by the way, which concerns me. It’s been more than a week and she’s not home. I’ve been trying to catch the Grand Duchess, but so far to no avail.)

The Empress is, indeed, an icon, not just to my readers, but really to us all. A pain sometimes, but an iconic pain and never, ever dull. The last I heard, they were still giving her fluids and trying to address the gastrointestinal problems that have been plaguing her for about three weeks.

In all seriousness, think good thoughts for the old girl and as soon as I know something more, I’ll let you know. (Thanks for asking, Beth. You’re good people.)

Our kitchen faucet could have been flowing pure liquid valium yesterday and it would not have gotten me past my hormonal craziness.

I did, however, have the good sense, in the midst of the ubiquitous Law & Order re-run, after having answered the same question the same way three times in the space of five minutes, to manufacture an errand and get out of the house.

I wound up sitting on one of my favorite benches at the botanic gardens listening to the waterfall and engaging in a mild act of voyeurism.

Across the way, a young couple, oblivious to their surroundings, stood kissing in a dappled pool of shade. The sun caught the highlights in her hair and the ring on her finger as the stroked his cheek and looked up into his eyes.

His arms were linked around her waist, pulling her into him and to say they had it bad for one another is an understatement in the annals of love.

Later, while emailing with a friend, I admitted that in borrowing that moment of love, my day shifted in the shadows and caught the reflection of better emotions.

Cynically, we could say their mental state and mine were all chemically driven, but in the greater scheme of things, wouldn’t you like to think the happy endorphins win in the end?

I knew when I stopped her from going up to the pool the other day that the Empress wasn’t well. She had visibly lost weight and just seemed more frail.

According to the daughter’s report, she was severely dehydrated and having trouble with her kidney function.

I asked if there was anything around here I needed to tend to. The question was conveyed. And in the background I hear the Empress say, “I don’t know the status of the pool and I’m concerned about it.”

To which I said, “Wouldn’t it be a damn shame if a stick of dynamite got lobbed in that sumbitch while your Mama is laid up in the hospital?”

The Grand Duchess tittered, “I’ll tell her you’ll look after it.”

Yeah, I’d like to look after it alright. No where are those ads for construction employment I was reading in the paper? Surely one of those companies could spare a stick of TNT.

Grumble.

Seriously, got up this morning. Checked my email. Twenty-four additions to said list. I’m not kidding. 24.

Life lesson for the day. Don’t check your email.

And then, of course, there’s that attempt at dealing with life. This morning I was thinking about the week. Issue with one friend that went down in flames, issue with another that uplifted us both and made us stronger. 50/50. Maybe that’s about the best we ought to be expecting from the game of life.

Lord knows I’ve played worse odds with lesser results. My greatest gambling story is the day when, much to my father’s horror, I split a pair of fours at a Vegas blackjack table and then proceeded to hit 21 on both of them.

That was nothing but pure luck in the face of a stupid wager, but one of my favorite song lyrics suggest a girl has to play her heart when she’s down on her luck. I’m not particularly down on my luck, but it has been a week of playing it by heart.

So imagine my displeasure when, at about 7 o’clock last night when it was still hotter than the hinges of hell, I find her toddling up to the pool. I had been out on the patio feeding Socks and Midnight their supper. Reading glasses down on the end of my nose. One of my long-tailed, not-leaving-the-house today shirts. I’m sure I looked lovely.

Using my less than lady-like voice, I got her to stop so I could catch up with her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going up to check the water level on the pool.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Stay!”

Yes, I actually barked “stay” at a 90-year-old woman. She’s so damned obstinate, a rolled up newspaper would not be out of order.

I went up to the swamp – that’s right, it’s still a green, algae-filled mess – verified the water level and returned to where she was standing. We discussed the pool company she’s just fired and the new one she’s just hired.

“Do not go up there,” I scolded. “Call me. I do not promise to be in a good mood, but I’d rather go up there grumpy than have you go up there and fall.”

Yes, I do know I’ve just shot myself in the foot – again – but she’s 90 and about four-feet tall. I can’t help myself.

Of course, the kicker is that she knows I can’t help myself, as do the other old women in my life, as do the stray cats, the coons, the possums . . .

Hell, maybe my third tattoo should just read, “Sucker.”

By the time we got home Sunday, I was just a worn out, melted puddle of goo. Today – really this evening – is the first time I’ve felt like a human being. For the most part, R. has spent the last three days in bed. She was a real champ on this trip, with only one panicky incident because she really didn’t understand where I was going or how long I would be gone. Once we dealt with that, she was fine.

What can you say about spending so much time with people you’ve known always, getting called by your very Texas double name, getting hugged and kissed, listening to lies, telling lies, laughing, drinking way too much beer – let me re-emphasize the “way” in that statement.

Suffice to say that Saturday morning I knew I wasn’t 17 any more and Sunday morning I damn well knew it. And yes, there is photographic evidence of same:

Those are my life-long chums Nancy and Debbie. We took up the conversation just like we’d seen each other yesterday.

After all the pre-trip angst, everybody got along, everybody helped everybody else, much fun was had – pretty much a total success. My school now has an historical marker:

(That’s my buddy BR’s Dad. His Mama, age 98, is the second oldest living graduate of Junction High School. The oldest, age 100, chose to stay in the auditorium thus illustrating someone with intelligence did get out of that place.)

I trod the old halls:

Visited well-loved venues:

And was in a country I love more than drawing in breath:

All in all, a great success, a good time had by all – reunion in every sense of the word.  

Well okey dokey. I’ll get right on that.

A longer account of the excursion is in order, and there were many best moments. Oddly enough, one was spent pretty much by myself.

It was hot. Lord God, it was hot. At some point in the dance Saturday night, as I felt rivers of sweat running down my back and the throbbing beat of the music shredded my last nerve, I bought a cold beer, quietly exited the pavilion and walked down the hill to the auction barn where I was parked.

I rolled the windows down, put the seat back, stared at the moon, listened to the now tolerable music, drank my beer and caught up with email on the BlackBerry.

Half an hour later, one beer down, a few long-distance laughs, I waded back in and finished the evening – and had a lot of fun doing it.

Today’s life lesson: know when to go to the goat barn with a beer.

I’m just saying.

Papa Bear’s Facebook page reports that Mama Bear makes funny noises in her sleep while on pain meds (it was a C-section) and he’s already snapping photos of his new daughter with zesty enthusiasm.

In today’s shots, Little Ewokette had her eyes open and most of the tubes had gone away. It may just be me, but I swear that expression said, “What the heck have I gotten myself into?”

I’ve also consciously attempted not to over pack. Let me give you an example of how bad I am to prepare for Armageddon.  Not long after R.’s stroke, my Aunt Elizabeth passed away.

R. had not even started physical therapy, but she was determined to attend the service – a four-hour drive. It was my first time traveling with her as a disabled person.

Missy J. was kind enough to come along and help. We had to leave at the crack of dawn. I will never forget the moment when she opened the back door, looked in at everything I packed, looked up at me and said:

“Are we burying Aunt Elizabeth in the Yukon Territory?”

Okay . . . one, two, three . . . le sigh.