I never cease to be amazed at the number of people who tell me they read this thing every week. However, I think I am more amazed that they claim to enjoy it.

The cards and letters are still coming in with kind messages about the death of my father, many of which have come from unexpected sources. It continues to touch and surprise me every time another comes.

As I was saying last week, I am making every attempt to get back to the routines of life. In my case, that involves getting back to work.

I have ambitiously opted to try to do three different projects this year, among which is covering the front of the house, rebuilding the back porch and constructing my new building.

But that was before the creeping crud attacked.

It was Saturday when one member of my family serendipitously found a garbage can nearby when the urge to do the get sick struck without warning. Soon thereafter, another family member came down with another ailment entirely, no doubt related in some sinister way to the first's problems.

Then, by the following morning, I had contracted many of the tell- tale signs: fever, aching muscles, fatigue, nausea, chills, sweats and general malaise.

You know, it doesn't make any sense, but children seem to get these ‘bugs' and then get completely over them in a day or so. At least you figure they're over it all, since they are running through the house like wild Indians while one tries to convene even the notion of sleep and peaceful rest.

Of course, they make medications for that - not for the children, of course, but for the adults. It's called Store Brand PM, which means that those without children should only take it at night. Everyone else is free to take it any old time they please.

Upon knowing that the creeping crud appeared ready to strike, I realized it was a weekend, so I would need to play doctor. I started by digging through the medicine cabinet for out-of-date prescriptions that might provide relief.

Instead I found some children's cough syrup, 17 bottles of over-the- counter pain reliever of different types and sizes and a king-sized bottle of laxative.

Realizing that none of these offered a prescription for happiness, I opted to go ahead and swallow down a couple of pain reliever pills and head to the store for a case of frozen treats. There's nothing like those colorful little treats on a stick to make one's throat feel better after a long night of coughing and hacking. Of course, by the time I got around to being able to appreciate such a treat, most of them had disappeared, apparently used by the aforementioned wild Indians as a form of pseudo war paint. In fact, I've also came to the realization that nothing makes a young brave feel like attacking a wagon train, or at least a leaned-back recliner that somehow renders the image of a wagon train, more than a bloodstream full of sugar and FD&C Red No. 40. I'm not sure what's in that Red No. 40, but it's like rocket fuel for anyone under the age of 10.

By Monday, I went to the doctor and received my diagnosis, complete with a prescriptive cure to be taken at least three times per day and a big bottle of red cough syrup. The doctor explained that this is an odd time of year to have a throat infection.

On the way back home I picked up my medications, along with some of that nifty throat spray that helps make swallowing tolerable. I also opted for some convenience foods, since the chef was going to be on bed rest for a day or two. Soon after taking my dose of the syrup that evening, dozing lightly, the Indians attacked again. It's a good thing the Indians didn't have rockets, I thought as one charged by me with a red frozen treat, or the rest of us wouldn't be here right now. I'm not sure that would be an entirely bad thing, especially if you are one of said Indians.

From what I can gather, my great grandmother on my father's side was a 'full-blooded Indian,' whatever that means. My grandfather, who had dark skin and black hair, had many of the characteristics of native Americans. Of my father's brothers, at least two had very strong native American resemblance, while the others, including my own father, leaned more toward the German and English features that I inherited. I say this to let you know that the warpath isn't too far removed from the family bloodline, even though I hadn't seen it displayed so clearly. So I opted to lean back in my motionless connastoga cruiser, alternating between shivering and burning up, hoping to hold off the war party.

Somewhere between fever dreams and being awake, I realized that I didn't really feel like getting up to go to the bathroom. The alternative was enough to get my feet moving. As I stumbled back, I fed the young braves rice cereal. Maybe the settlers heading out from the east only needed a few bags of rice crunchies to placate the wild west. As I leaned back in the chair, I heard the drums start up as the ceremonial dance of the rice crunchies began. Perhaps I should have taken more of that PM with cough syrup, I thought. As I always say, "It's never too late to medicate."

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