A warm welcome to all new subscribers, and welcome back to all you faithful longtiming TwinkleGrammers. I hope your new year is off to a good start. What a beginning to the new year we've had here in our neck of the woods--and basement! Where to begin talking about our "episodes. . . . "

Me thinks I'll save my Great(est) Adventure for today's message, but regarding other "happenings," Big George (my husband, familiar to many of you) is undergoing a knee replacement 2/13, so all prayers appreciated. You can send good wishes directly to him at bigknee@juno.com. Please put "Well Wishes" in the subject line.

On other fronts, Da Bears are going to the SUPERBOWL (proving God is still working earthly miracles!), da fingers are still typing (proving even the onset of arthritic bumps can't stop me), and, for better or for worse, Da Donald (couldn't resist) continues to get good press coverage. WHAT A LIFE!

And thanks to some astute feedback, there are a couple technical issues I will be addressing before the next installment, so in the mean time I've returned to this simpler format.

Now that we're past the launch and book tour for Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything!, we're simply back to TwinkleGramming business--aside from this one tidbit: Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? (#6 IN THE SERIES) will release September 25th (you are the first to KNOW!), so if you're behind, CATCH UP! That's only eight months away, which means ... so is my birthday!

And now, for today's story. Fasten your seatbelts. No, really.

Since these dozen boxes are still out of the attic, it "comes over" Big George that this would be a convenient time to drag everything else out of the attic--everything we've been stuffing up there for the past 37 years. And so he does, and so he "sorts" the contents of those billions of boxes all over the garage. Imagine THAT mess on top of the mess already in progress. (Imagine again, only this time imagine a dozen times the chaos than what you've already imagined.) For instance, our youngest son just turned 36, and while packing the fake garland, I'm also discovering a pile of his baby clothes. Or are those mine? While still wading through mounds of jingle bells on the upper level, I discover a stack of giant bones in the garage. WHAT on EARTH?

OHMYGOLLY! Don't TELL me! But yes, it's true: the bones are remnants of our hand-made Halloween cannibal costumes ("no admittance to the party without a costume") from 37 years ago. We visited meat markets and boiled all the meat off those bones, which we wore in our hair, dangling from our waists. . . . "It's a good thing you didn't die and have someone else find those bones in your attic," our neighbor says.

During the height of the mess, I buy plastic storage bins of every shape, color and size. (On sale, don'tcha know.) It's not only time to get rid of stuff, but to trash the stinky, decaying boxes housing some of the "good" stuff (hahahaha! HAHAHAHAHA!) we want to keep. Now picture piles of storage containers adding to the chaos.

Before long, I 'm on a terror of a determined roll to create order and harmony in our home. With only three Christmas boxes left to pack before turning my attention to all that attic whatever, I hear the buzzer indicating the last load of Christmas linens (you know the one) in the dryer is done. Lickety split, down the basement stairs I go. When I get to the bottom of the steps . . .

CRASH!

As it turns out, I was NOT at the bottom. Unbeknownst to me, I had one step to go, one step I took toward the dryer--into thin air. And guess what? No matter how much hot air I can sustain or spew at any given time, it turns out I cannot walk on air.

George, who was already in the basement and looking right at me when I crashed (because I was looking at him, because I was on his case about something-- sigh), came charging (okay gimping, due to that upcoming knee replacement, remember?) to assist the splatted and crying me. Before he even reached me I felt a wave of nausea. It was then I knew I'd broken my leg since the only other time I broke anything, it was this same leg, about 1" higher up. Yes, I recalled that familiar wave of broken-bone nausea.

Now picture this: the fallen me in the middle of the mess, and not one new plastic storage bin large enough to contain me. ("Don't call channel seven news," I quip to my neighbor days later. "They'll discover we're living in 'squalor'!") You cannot imagine what it took for Big George and me (no-knee Mr. and broken leg Mrs.) to get out of the basement. In fact, I encourage you NOT to picture that. Emergency room. Pain pill. Temporary cast, which they tell me absolutely NOT to put any weight on. They demand I see an orthopedic doc sooner than later.

Now picture this: about ten crutch-driven hobbles out of my cubicle in the emergency room, I FALL DOWN! SPLAT! I crash on the temporary cast, then my knee, then my hip. I pull my groin. One crutch goes one way and one another. Uniformed people come running from every which way to help me since I cannot get up off the floor. ("Help, I've fallen and I'm too stupid to STAY DOWN, so I've FALLEN AGAIN!") They want to know if they need to take me back to x-ray for any other body parts. "I just want to get home," moans me.

Fast foward: I've been living in a lounge chair the past two weeks. Complex fracture, which means several of them. The good news: the pieces didn't come apart, so no surgery. Bad news: no weight (and boy, I've got some) on it until at least 2/6 when I go for a re-x-ray, at which time they'll determine if I can have a walking cast. (You know you're a mess when you consider a walking cast EXCITING!) George, my long-suffering (in so many, many ways), gimping hero has been caring for me. Our neighbors came over and moved all the Christmas boxes upstairs and out of our way. George moved the attic stuff around to here and there so he could get the cars back in the garage before the snow. The new plastic bins are still empty and waiting. The furniture is plastered against the walls (thank you, neighbors) to make room for me and my crutches. It simply is what it is until one or both of us gets ambulatory enough to change it. We have had to learn to cope with living in squalor which I don't believe is a good book title, but nonetheless makes me realize I have enough material to write it. ;>)

The Geek Squad came and WI-FIed our house so I can work downstairs. Getting up the stairs to my office is courting disaster--okay, another disaster. Ask me how I know THAT? (No, don't.) I'm sleeping on the hide-a-bed in the living room and rolling around the kitchen in my office chair.

The moral(s) and lesson(s) of this story? Throw away any old boiled bones you might be keeping for reasons unknown to any sane human, and do it now now. Give thanks for each unhindered step you take. Thank God for your friends and neighbors; we are humbled by the generous gifts of time, resources and FOOD they've graced us with. Kornflake, our faithful dog, sends out a barking shout to our kind friend who's been taking him for a daily walk since our onslaught of old-age tricks. BE a good friend and neighbor to those in need. You can't IMAGINE what phone calls, cards and especially In Person VISITS have meant to us.

And remember, be careful whose case you're on since he or she might be the very person from whom you'll soon receive oodles and oodles of grace.

Peace and grins until we chat again, Charlene, Her Royal KABOOMING Highness

Thank you, TwinkleGrammers, for continuing to allow me to share my thoughts with you. Do not ever hesitate to share some back!