Sunday wasn’t only Easter, it was also the first anniversary of my dad’s passing.  I’m not gong to be morbid, but I can’t let it go completely unnoticed.  I was very much a daddy’s girl when I was little.  We had our problems through my teenage and young adult years and then we found ourselves great friends after he retired. 

My dad was loved by many people.  Many, many people.  If you met him…you loved him.  He had a huge smile…and a little teeny body.  He made you want to put him in your pocket and take him out when you needed a hug.  He was just the best thing since sunshine.  He and mom had five daughters, but the second to the oldest died while being born so there were really just the four of us.  I am the youngest.  I remember riding on the laundry truck with dad in the summers when he was a laundry delivery man.  There was nothing better than that.  I also remember crawling into his lap in the morning when he was drinking his coffee.  He smelled like soap and aftershave and freshly laundered…heavily starched…shirts.  His lap was always ready for a daughter.  It was just a matter of who got there first.  He taught me to fish and told me I had to bait my own hook.  He gave me my first beer.  I hated it.  I still do.  Mom always told us “wait till your dad gets home” like something was going to happen.  It never did. He loved to torment my dates.  He loved to tease me.  He ordered ’possum when we went to restaurants.  He taught each and every one of us to drive.  He loved each and every sport he ever saw and nothing was more fun than college basketball.  He hated any television program I ever wanted to watch while I lived in his house.  It was only after I had moved out of his house that I found out he really didn’t. When I first moved out I couldn’t afford a phone so mom and dad couldn’t check up on me.  It was only much later that dad told me that he drove by my duplex every night to make sure my car was in the driveway. (He said he did it for mom)  One of my fondest memories of dad is on my wedding day.  He smiled all day long.  He couldn’t have been more proud.  There is a picture of him kissing my cheek.  It will always be dear to me.  When I got older, I was pretty sure my dad’s goal in life was to make me miserable.  I imagine he felt the same about me.  I ignored his existence as much as possible.  He reciprocated.  It was only later, after I had a few kids under my belt, that I begin to realize what an amazing thing he and my mother had done.  They had raised 4 daughters to maturity with no prison records and they had done it all without the benefit of antidepressants. 

Dad had a stroke right before he died.  He didn’t know who he was most days.  He knew mom, but not her name.  He usually called her mama, and sometimes he thought she was one of his sisters.  He didn’t know my sisters or me.  It was hard not to take it personally but it was the stroke not dad.  Each day I would go sit with him so mom could go home to shower or run errands, and we would have some fabulous talks.  We discussed things that might or might not have happened.  We talked about jobs he had or hadn’t had.  We talked about where we were when he forgot.  We talked about the Romanov family (he thought he had married Anastasia).  We talked about the birds and squirrels that were in the trees outside his windows in the hospital (which couldn’t be seen).  We talked about a lot of important things…and everyday for about six weeks I got to tell my daddy I love you and every day I heard him say I love you too.

On April 11th of 2008 we moved him to a hospice facility in Springdale.  It really took a lot out of him.  He was really disoriented that day, but he had a lot of company.  He got to see every one of his daughters and almost everyone of his grandchildren, and he was even  able to see the very newest addition to the ever increasing numbers of his great grandchildren.  He was too weak to hold the new baby but someone was able to hold her to him so he could kiss her and smell the new baby smell.  We took pictures of Pa with the newest family member.  Later that night it was just mom and dad and me.  I should have sensed that mom wanted me to stay, but I didn’t.  I waited for her to get ready for bed.  I talked to dad while she brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas.  I told him goodnight and that I would see him tomorrow and just like always I told him I loved him.  When mom was ready for bed she got the same.  In the early hours of April 12th my mother called to ask my husband and I to come back.  Dad’s labored breathing could be heard throughout the room.  I went to his bed and took his hand.  I kissed his brow and told him I would watch out for mom and if he needed to go it was okay.  The room became silent.  I was holding my father’s hand when he passed away.  There was nothing left to say.

Easter used to mean going to my sister’s farm and hiding eggs all over the forty acres, then sending the kids (all ten of them) across the property in search.  They never found them all, and my brother-in-law mowed the sulfurous stinkiness up a couple of weeks later.  Ahhh the good old days.  Now, the kids have kids and those are the kids that are hunting eggs, because all of us have become grandparents.  What vile trick of fate is this.  My youth has been stolen and given to my children.

On Sunday my oldest son, non-vag. daughter, grandson, oldest sister, mother, hubby, and myself had a quiet (yeah right) little Easter at our house.  Normally, we hide Easter eggs in the backyard, but this year the temperatures were too cool and the weather was too damp.  It rained all morning and well into the afternoon.  So Boppy hid Easter eggs in the house.  He hid a dozen plastic eggs filled with change down low for the precious to find, and a dozen real eggs in difficult locales for the adults to find.  Note: difficult locales.  When my son and his family arrived the precious immediately started finding eggs.  He was so excited…the eggs were everywhere.  He found them and put them in his basket.  He couldn’t wait.  Almost with the first 10 minutes he was here he had found all 12 of his Easter eggs.  Then he started finding the “hard” eggs.  I had to re-hide some of his finds.  When it was time for the adult Easter egg hunt, he was a little short in the stride to actually find the eggs, but…it didn’t keep him from coaching.  He walked along behind his mom, granny, daddy, and aunt, chattering like a little monkey and pointing to places he felt eggs could be.  His dad handed him an egg (don’t ask me why) and he hurled a beautiful forward pass to me.  I wish I had known it was coming.  Egg shell went everywhere.  I was in big trouble for breaking his football.  I tried and tried to make him understand that what he had thrown was not a football but and egg.  I even showed him his little green hand that was a result of the green egg.  OMG!!  He went nuts!!  Green hand!  It was like a two foot tall rain man had invaded his body.  Must wash hand.  Two minutes till hand wash. One minute till hand wash.  Hand wash…hand wash…hand wash.  Finally we got the hands washed and he settled down.  I sometimes think he is Boppy’s son not grandson.  Geez a lou!

If you ever truly want to enjoy yourself get some Easter eggs and some elderly people.  You won’t need many…of either.  Mom is almost 78.  She wasn’t going to hunt eggs.  My sister basically had to twist her arm to get her to do it.  It has probably been 72 years since her last egg hunt, if she ever hunted eggs other than the ones the hens laid.  She found one.  Now the egg hunt probably took 20 minutes.  Most of the eggs had been found within the first 10 minutes.  There was one egg that defied finding.  If you have ever had an indoor egg hunt with real eggs you know that the hunt ain’t over until all eggs are found so no one was giving up.  Mom started in “I’m through.”  “No you’re not.”  “Well I can’t find any.”  I was so tempted right then to pull out “can’t never could”.  God I hated that saying.  I bet I heard it at least a gazillion times growing up.  It would be nothing short of sweet justice to pull that one out of the closet, dust it off and lob it at her head.  I didn’t.  “Well you found one.”  “That’s all I’ve found.”  “Well did it come up and jump in your arms?”  “No. I found it.”  “Guess you’re gonna have to find this last one too.”  She didn’t.  My sister did.  Finally.  I took pictures.  Lots of pictures.  There is something so satisfying about seeing grown ups walking around with little baskets on their arms, bending and stretching, hunting high and low for a colored boiled egg.  Now granted…the eggs were worth money, but technically…no never mind that…my son summed it up beautifully “are you kidding the economy is so bad I’m whoring myself out over boiled eggs.”

You know, there is a life story in there.  When you get right down to it you are either the entertainer or the entertained and sometimes the only difference is who has the bankroll.  I never thought I would boil Easter down to something so barbaric.  But hey, the economy is bad….I’ve got the pictures to prove it!

I was speaking to one of my wayward waifs today and they told me that they needed to hear my southern drawl.  Now I kid myself about a lot of things…I tell myself I’m young and beautiful, thin, and tall but I don’t have a southern drawl.  I wish I did.  There is nothing more warm and welcoming, in my opinion, than the rhythmic sing song sounds of a true southern drawl.  I have a southern accent and that’s different.  To have a drawl requires being from North or South Carolina or Georgia and it reminds one of honey and molasses.  It is rich and welcoming.  It rolls off the tongue with thick notes and lingers in the air like fog.  Let me try and explain.

I have always lived in Arkansas.  I am a hillbilly.  The accent that I have is hick.  I drop the g from words ending in ing and hang onto my r’s like there’s no tomorrow.  I don’t use ain’t, but I have family that would be at a loss for words if you took it from their vocabulary.  These same family members have trouble with verb tense and use colloquial phrases that would cause folks that aren’t from around here to scratch their heads.  For example, I’m not sure that someone from Italy would know what to do about a “hitch in your git along” but my family would.  If I am angry or upset my words come faster and my voice gets higher and my children claim I become more southern.  What they actually mean is…I become harder to understand because I become increasingly redneck.  I threaten them with harm that they know will never come to them.  “I put you on this planet and I will take you off!”  doesn’t scare them anymore because they know I wouldn’t dare, and my tone is increasingly nasal.  When he was last here, my youngest son told me I sounded like a cartoon character because “your little voice just gets higher and higher as you get angry.”  So they know I pose no threat at all at this point.

While he went to school, my husband lived in Raleigh, North Carolina.  I loved the weekends that I was there with him.  It was such a joy to listen to the natives speak.  They rolled their r’s around on their tongues for days before they released them for others to just barely hear.  Water became wahtah. Lights weren’t turned on, they were cut on and off.  But not even that they were “Cut own and cut off.”  They spoke in syllables that dragged on for hours.  They made time seem inconsequential if you judged by their speech.  Everything was slow and easy.  When we would go out in public I would just stop and listen to the beautiful trickle of their words.  It was as calmingand lovely as a cool stream on a hot day.  Even when they were angry or upset they sounded so genteel that you would never know by their tone that anything was awry. ”Do you won’t to be in time out?  We ahre heahto try own shoes!” an exasperated mother told her child.   It was the most amazingthingto witness.  I became fascinated by their words and ways.  I would have loved to have been able to download their speech patterns and dialects.  If I could effortlessly speak as they do it would be just a little piece of heaven.  When I speak people say “are you from Texas?”  Please.  I don’t even acknowledge Texas.  Well, my husband has an aunt who lives there that we love to the moon and back but she’s really from Kansas so I don’t feel like dissing Texas is being rude to her.  But the true south, the real old south, that’s the accent that sounds like money.  It’s southern east coast, but don’t get all the way down to Florida because then you will hear accents that are from much further north and much, much further south. 

I like that my children, the gypsy children anyway, think that I have a southern accent.  It adds dimension to my life.  I like to think that the people they tell that to think Scarlett O’Hara and not Granny Clampett.  Perhaps they envision me sitting on some huge old porch attached to some antebellum mansion with a mint jullep and a parasol.  Spanish moss is dripping off the trees in the yard and I am watching the sun set over the rows and rows… of golfers that are out on the course that day.  (You didn’t really think I would live on a farm did you?)  I know it’s silly but I’m fond of the sounds of the southern tongue.  Not hick…southern.  It soothes me.  It always has.  It means calm and collected, and for some reason people who come from cooler climates (further north and east) seem to have voices that effect me like fingernails on chalkboards.  It may not make sense to you but it makes perfect sense to me, and I have always assumed that for people from the north it is the same.  You need to hear the mother tongue to feel at peace.  It’s just that the mother tongue I need to hear is a little further south and east.  Perhaps I was adopted.

Yes, my darling ones, I know I have been less than timely with my musings but I have good reason.  I haven’t felt like it.  No, I am not sick…just whiny.  Mother has decided to move to a different apartment complex and that is taking some of my time.  The anniversary of Dad’s passing is coming up.  Easter is a rather big event here at the hacienda, and I am (as you might have guessed) a little depressed that all of my chickens aren’t going to be in the nest for this holiday.  I realize they won’t be in the nest frequently now that they have lost their pin feathers and soar the friendly skies…but that doesn’t really make me feel better.  Sometimes I just need to see all of their faces in one place.  So without any defining reason, just a bug up my butt, I have been avoiding sitting down and putting words to key board for fear of spreading this malaise across the kingdom.

The precious was here tonight.  We baked sugar cookies for his school party tomorrow.  Then we frosted them with pastel frosting.  He had a great time licking frosting off of the one cookie that he was using as a frosting container.  He saw no reason to eat the cookie.  As far as he was concerned, it made a perfectly wonderful container for his frosting and as long as I was willing to reload it (once it was licked clean) there was no problem.  He had to have a bath after that little adventure.  When I took him upstairs to bathe him I found frosting in places that only God should know about.  The other curious thing about bathing that child is how when he is the one actually in the water…why am I the one who is getting wetter?  It is a mystery that my never be solved.  Another little mystery is all the places I found pastel frosting handprints after he had gone home.  Hmmmmmmm????

I think I have my very dear, very southern friend who lives down the street taken care of for a while.  All of her test results have come back and it appears she is doing well.  The infection that occurred in her eye post-surgery is gone and she is healing well.  She is brash and sassy, and that might be a problem in someone else, but for her it just means she’s back to normal.  She and I went shopping together one day this week and we had a great time.  We went to a bargain store and found so many good deals she just nearly whooped out loud with joy!  There’s really only one thing she likes better than a bargain and that’s peanut butter.  Well, maybe Aldi’s.  It would be close. 

I think I need to get out more.  It’s when I get out that people piss me off and I have something to talk about.  Or when I got to the doctor’s office.  Lord, knows you run into the cream of the crop there.  But when I went in on Tuesday, I was the only one in the office.  Usually, there is such a smelting pot (that is not a typo) of humanity you can hardly breathe.  I have actually left the doctor’s office sicker than when I went in.  I use them (the others)  as reference for my blog.  I people watch.  I always have.  It irritates my husband.  Please, like he is too good to people watch.   One of these days when he figures out that people have been trying to figure him out his whole life he’s going to give up the pretense of not caring and start people watching too.  I knew his mother.  I know the importance of people watching was planted in him as an infant.  Anyway, people (other people of course, my dear ones) are always fodder.  I’m always listening in on conversations.  Watching the way people interact with others, and even the way they carry themselves.  For instance, have you ever noticed that when women get out of their car, they will adjust their clothing before they walk into the store.  But men, just get out of the car, hitch up their britches, and assume that they look wonderful and walk on in.  Now ninety percent of the time the female looks better than the male even before she tidied up.  So why are they so much more confident about their looks than we are?  I blame society…and commercials.  That’s another blog.

I will try to be better about writing, though I am afraid that my medications are working too well and I am becoming mellow in my old age.  I haven’t been as irritated with life as much as usual just lately.  I haven’t been around as many people, had as many doctor’s appointments, been to as many events, had as many opportunities to become enraged as usual but there’s hope.  We have a heap of birthdays coming up and my family is just a banjo and one missing chromosome away from a confrontation at any given time.  So we will see if I maintain my composure throughout.  Then the trick will be writing about it in such a way to make each of you think it wasn’t about you, but that it was about someone else. 

 

I have been very busy of late, preparing Easter baskets. I am well aware that this is the job of the Easter Bunny, but I am one of the official Easter Bunny helpers.  It was many years ago that I met E.B., when one of her children needed a home.  This bunny had been placed with my niece and her children, dogs, and cats.  Trust me, it was not a situation that any self-respecting rabbit would want to find themselves in.  The bunny was being contained in a travel tote.  Even though the bunny was tiny it was apparent that this mini hut wasn’t going to be big enough much longer.  Now, I am allergic to anything with fur.  I felt certain that this fur ball wasn’t going to be an exception.  I told my niece that I would hold the rabbit, and if I didn’t break out in hives, sneeze, stop up, have my eyes swell shut, and have an asthma attack I would take it home with me for my daughter.  Fate is a funny thing, because that day I didn’t have a reaction.  Two months later, I was receiving allergy shots twice weekly, using my emergency asthma inhaler, taking two different antihistamines (one a nasal spray and one oral), a preventative asthma pill, and a preventative inhaler twice daily, using antihistamine eye drops, and a steroid eye drop to help with the swelling.  Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

Our bunny grew on us all.  We fenced off our hallway and let it be the bunny run.  We put a litter box in there, and the bunny used it for all “wet” business.  The other business was always a surprise.  It seemed to just fall from behind without warning.  There was no potty training for train wrecks.  We named our bunny Heffy.  We had long since decided our bunny was a boy, and we thought he had gone from the outhouse to the penthouse so….Hugh Hefner was soon shortened to Heffy and a star was born.  Heffy was long on attitude and it soon became clear that I (not my daughter) was the mommy bunny.  That meant that I would be blamed for any and all wrong doing.  We had read that sterilization would go a long way toward lightening the attitude of our errant lad.  We took him in to the vet on a Monday and were told we could  pick him up on Tuesday night.  Well, our first surprise was when the vet called to tell us that SHE had made it through the surgery just fine.  The second surprise was when she wouldn’t look at me because she was angry that I had taken her to the doctor.  Who knew cotton balls had such strong emotions?

We had a slide for Heffy, a harness (so she could go on walks), a tube (so she could work on her construction), but as hard as we looked we were never able to find a hard hat for her.  She was good with children…until she was older, and she loved popcorn…she would come running as soon as she heard the popping begin, but the best part about her was the fact that she was the Easter Bunny’s daughter.  Every year during the week before Easter she would disappear.  When she came back her white paws would be oddly stained bright colors.  Her back fur would be sprinkled with glitter, and the insides of her pink ears would glisten with the mix of marbled dyes and tie dyed eggs.  She would be so tired she could barely move, but she would look at me with absolute joy as I cuddled her in a bunny burrito (that’s when I wrapped her in a towel and all you could see was her nose and eyes sticking out) and her eyes would close and she would begin to gently snore.  I always made sure she had an Easter Basket too.  It had to be dye free, staple free, and filled with bunny friendly treats.  It was usually down to splinters by mid-afternoon.  Our bunny was special.

One afternoon we noticed Heffy wasn’t acting right.  She was having trouble walking and she couldn’t hop straight.  We took her into the Bunny doctor and she said that our bunny was very sick.  She has a mass in her tummy and something wrong with her sense of balance that wasn’t allowing her to hop.  She said that our bunny had lived much, much longer than any other bunny her age because we had loved her so much and made her life special and that now the most special thing we could do for her would be let her go to bunny heaven.  It might have been the most special thing we could do, but it was also the hardest.  I promised Heffy right before I said goodbye that I would always do my part to help the Easter Bunny in her place.  And for the last three years I have done just that.  I have dyed eggs and made Easter baskets so that there wouldn’t be anyone who noticed that there was one less little white rabbit in the world  (other than me and Boppy).  So this is for you Heffy, Happy Easter!!  We miss you!!

I have become persona non gratis in my grandson’s life, because I bought him a pair of shoes.  They weren’t great shoes or expensive shoes.  They were Lightning McQueen shoes…you know from the Disney animated film Cars.  He loves that movie.  In truth he is obsessed with that movie.  He has all the cars, he knows their names, he watches the movie over and over…he is a nut about that movie.  So, when I found a pair of Crocs that looked like Lightning McQueen for $2.18 of course I bought them for him.  OMG! He loved them!!  He put one on right away, and tucked the other under his chin as if it was a baby.  He wore one and cuddled one for a solid two hours.  He finally relented and put both shoes on, and everywhere we went he insisted that all of the new people look at his “budin shoes” (I truly don’t know how to spell this, but it is the sound he says a car makes…you know…it goes budin budin).  He couldn’t wait for his mommy and daddy to see them.  We discussed what they would say, and we both agreed that they would say “Wow!”  Which of course they did. 

Well, later that night as his mommy was getting him ready for his bath, she attempted to take the shoes off of him and mayhem ensued.  Apparently, the precious was not going to remove the shoes for any reason.  Normally he loves his bath more than anything else, but not this night.  It wasn’t going to happen.  His daddy decided to just put him in the tub shoes and all.  Well, the precious decided he had the stupidest dad on the planet.  No one gets in the tub with shoes on, and he wasn’t going to either.  When my non-vag. daughter called to tell me about the incident, the precious was sitting on the couch buck naked with just the budin shoes on.  She said she was going to put his pajamas on him over the shoes and hope for the best.  She realized that he was going to sleep in the shoes, but once that took place she was going to remove them and wash his feet.  I heard nothing more that night.

Today at noon my son called to tell me he hated me.  He asked if I had spoken to his wife.  I told him no, and he said if she called and he were me, he wouldn’t answer.  I asked what the problem was, and he said “those damn shoes.”  You see the precious woke up at 3:00 a.m. and was more than a little upset that someone had removed his budin shoes.  As a result he woke everyone else up.  His mother refused to put the shoes back on him, but she put them in the crib and let him sleep with them.  Apparently the getting back to sleep took awhile though.  She finally gave up and went to bed, and let him lull himself back to sleep.  Now he has a blankie, a teddy bear, a basketball, and his budin shoes in bed with him to get to sleep.  I think his mom is more than a little concerned that he has an unnatural attachment to things, and that his crib is getting really crowded.

I don’t worry about them being upset or saying that I spoil him and that they are going to keep him away from me, because I know how much energy it takes to keep up with him.  Eventually they have to have a break and I’ll be there.  Besides, if they had seen those shoes for $2.18 they would have bought them too.  You see when they look at him they see spoiled, but when I look at him I just see how happy those shoes have made him.  Yes, those shoes have made them miserable, but I remember all the crap my parents bought my kids that made me miserable so I figure I’m just doing it right.  I think the precious would agree.

My very dear, very southern, friend who lives in my neighborhood, and I went out to dinner tonight.  She is a constant source of amusement.  The funny thing is, she says the same about me.  Anyway, she was feeling house bound after her recent eye surgery and all of the complications that have ensued and she still can’t drive so we went to get a burger.  Now, first of all that is what she says…”let’s go get a burger”…but she has yet to order one.  We go to her favorite “burger” place and she orders almost anything else off the menu.  I don’t know if just any hot sandwich is a burger (you know like some people think that any brown cola is a Coke) or if she always thinks she’s gonna get a burger and then when she reads the menu something else just sounds better. 

We went to a local restaurant that has recently decided that it would rather be a little fancier than it was.  You used to be able to go in, order at the counter, get your own drinks, and sit wherever suited you.  Now they ask that you Please Wait To Be Seated.  You know what we learned last fall about Lipstick and Pigs.  It’s still just a little mom and pop no matter what they make you do before your butt gets in the booth.  So we were finally seated and ordered our sandwiches (no burgers were harmed in the eating of this meal).  While we were discussing the short comings of the people seated around us, a lady walked in with her hair back combed and jacked to filth.  For those of you who don’t understand exactly what I mean…think the B52’s (band not plane).  Now my dear friend was seated so that she couldn’t see the woman’s face, just the rat’s nest that was the back of her head.  “What does the front of her look like?” she barely whispered.  I kind of mouthed, ”you’ll have to look on your way out.”  “I think she has socks up in there” she said a little louder than before.  In a moronic attempt to cover up what we were talking about I said, “well girl’s stuff their bras with all kinds of things.”  ”What in the world are you talking about?” she nearly shouted.  “I was talking about that awful head of hair.”  Well there is no covering that.  I just looked at her as the realization that she wasn’t even attempting to whisper came to her.  “Well, shit.” she said.   I just looked at her and said, “that about covers it.”

She’s a hoot and a half.  She swears she doesn’t get embarrassed, but I think she was a tad red over that.  When we did get up to leave she certainly didn’t turn around and look.  I was actually kind of surprised.  I figured her curiosity would get the better of her.  She just kept right on walking though.  Right out the door and into the car without a word or a glance in that woman’s direction.   I figured at that point she might as well have just sat down with her and had a conversation about her poor choice of hair style.  It wasn’t like the woman thought we hadn’t noticed.  

Well, after dinner she wanted to go to Walgreen’s and look for reading glasses.  Well, I took her and she found a lovely multi-colored pair with rhinestones (don’t ask) and an equally lovely pair of sunglasses with huge lenses that she swore reminded her of Sophia Loren.  As we were walking out the door (which is surrounded by the magnetic anti-theft detection devices) she began beeping.  I stopped just outside the doors and looked at her and said, “what the hell did you steal now?”  I sincerely wish you could have been there dear ones, to see the look on her face.  She said, “I can’t believe you said such a thing.”  I just looked at the little girl who had checked us out.  I told her to check her panties, “that’s where she hides things.”  My friend is cracking up.  She said “just check my panties.”  I thought the poor thing was going to faint.  I told her that it probably was a magnetic tag on the eyeglass case, which she ran through the system again and we walked out just fine.  But, once we were in the car we discussed the fact that thieves just don’t know what they’re missing out on.  If they would just get a seventy year old granny as a partner they could hide the goods in her panties because no one in their right minds is going skivvy dipping in granny panties.

It’s probably just as well that we don’t go out alone a lot, but we always have a lot of fun.  Well, I do.  She always laughs.  I assume that means she’s having fun.  It could be that nervous twitter that a lot of people get when they’re around me.  I don’t really know.  What I do know is that she’s not feeling house bound any more, and I got my dinner bought for me.  It seems like a win/win.  She swears I told her when we first met that she needed me to be her friend because all of her friends were old and they would be dead soon and then what would she do?  I can believe I said that, I just can’t remember it.  What I do believe is that in some ways she’s younger than me…maybe just less mature…Oh Lord, help us!   

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