Visitors

Mira and Noah dropped by this evening, wearing masks, of course. It was like letting springtime into the house. Mira, my granddaughter, (formerly known as Murgatroyd) and Noah are eighteen and they are a luscious pair. 

 I tried to talk them into having a Covid baby this year, but no, they had other plans: school, mission. You know--stuff. Nobody listens to me.

Anyway, we asked them questions and then answered them as well, because Tom and I don't get out that much. I think we let them talk for three minutes altogether. We did buy lobster sandwiches, which may or may not have made up for our blabbing our heads off. 

Mira brought me a book called HOW NOT TO ACT LIKE A LITTLE OLD LADY. You shouldn't talk about your bowels, for one thing. I don't know. Bowels can be such a surprise in old age--usually when you're in your car.

Visits save us from ourselves. We allow two people into the house. Sam and Sarah came by Sunday night bearing gifts, a candle that makes the living room smell wonderful without overwhelming it, some pumpkin cookies that we devoured instantly, and a puzzle of a map of Vienna, which we will never complete, but it came in an exquisite can which is now on display. Heavenly. 

And Charles came by last week to bring our new teak twin bed frame from Wayfair which had been mistakenly delivered to his house, because we lived there four months ago. He stayed for hours, which was a gift, although he refused to put the bed together. He says "no" the same way three-year old Charlie would have said it. "Sam will do it," he says. 

Tom actually put the bed together in short order. It took 12 bolts instead of the 550 bolts from IKEA. God loves IKEA but sometimes it really tests one's endurance.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you how Tom and I live in separate bedrooms and how that's working out for us. Nothing to do with bowels.