Knuckles on Old Boards on a Creek Embankment

Here I sit, in a motel in Ashtabula, Ohio, roughly sixty miles east of Cleveland. This motel room is tiny, in comparison to the apartment-sized place in South Bend. That apartment had separate living area, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen; full-sized refrigerator, stove-top, microwave, etc. It was a little tired, but it was as roomy a motel room as I’ve ever had. I was almost sad to leave it, but I had to go in search for a place to buy a toll-tag. And I found a toll-tag. But, as I was initiating it online, I learned that it might not be recognized by the toll-tag readers in Indiana for several hours. And it might not be recognized by toll-tag readers in other states for up to 48 hours. So, instead of risking it, I stayed off toll roads yesterday, opting instead to take “back roads” through Indiana and Ohio. The back roads yielded experiences I probably would not have had on a toll-road: lots of road-side  veggie stands (and pumpkin sales yards), plus several Amish horses and wagons driven alongside the “back roads.” And there was more, of course. Except for the horrors of dealing with rush-hour Cleveland traffic and misdirection from the car’s GPS and from the smart-phone GPS (both of which lost their ways and, consequently, my way), the drive was not at all bad. Lunch in downtown Perrysburg, Ohio revealed a downtown area that suggested a very nice place to live for people who like both “small-town” atmospheres and the amenities of city life. Perrysburg is just outside Toledo, Ohio, where I had my first long-term hospital stay for unplanned out-of-town surgery; that was in 1990. I don’t recall what hospital I was in back then; it may be gone now, for all I know. It matters not that I do not recall the place.

Today, the target may be Niagara Falls, New York. And/or Schenectady, New York. We shall see.

Last night’s dreams included one in which I was involved in some sort of association in which a volunteer leader of the organization, a woman, stabbed at least one other volunteer, also a woman. The woman who was stabbed recognized the severity of her injuries, but she was in no pain. And she could walk. I walked with both of them along a steep creek embankment that was decked in old 2×6 boards. My arms were long enough that I could keep my balance by propping myself up with my hands pressing against the boards. I think we were headed to a house where others had been stabbed. And I think the purpose of our trek to that house was to inform the residents of the house that the violent leader who was so handy with a knife had done some very bad things. Odd, that dream.

Time to get ready for departure. Off we go.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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