​Moonlight lit the snowy landscape as I walked downhill to the henhouse. Compelled by its glow, I paused, leaned on my ski pole, and lifted my face to another blooming full moon.
     The remarkably cold, still, March night settled into my bones. I prayed never to forget the date and sensation of God watching over me with His heavenly eye.
     As I studied the Moon’s circumference, it seemed to have a piece missing like a chip in a saucer. How odd.
      In search of an explanation about a “chipped” full moon, I stumbled on an internet article by journalist Leada Gore discussing the Worm Moon, Spring’s full moon.
      “While most people associate the Worm Moon with the time in spring that earthworms start to appear in the warming soil…NASA offers another explanation, saying the name came from southern Native American tribes due to the ‘earthworm casts that appear as the ground thaws,’” Ms. Gore wrote.
     With the resurrected file from my astronomy class of fall 1996 in hand, I searched for mention of a Worm Moon in my professor’s notes.
       Nada.
     However, on this Palm Sunday, March 24, 2024, my class notes recall some interesting facts about the Moon and its effect upon humans.
     For instance, that “the Moon pulls more strongly on the Earth than it does on water” is said to explain why more human babies are born on a full Moon than any other time of the month. Although I cannot vouch for birthdates in my family on the exact date of a full Moon, several of our birthdates come within a day or two.
     Perhaps that’s one reason for my attraction to the lunar light, one of seven heavenly bodies visible to the naked, human eye. My class remarks also remind me that Galileo “was the first person to point a telescope toward the heavens and thus the first man to see the mountains and craters on the Moon.”
     Mountains on the moon? I cannot remember seeing mountains July 20, 1969, when I watched commander Neil Armstrong and lunar module pilot Buzz Aldrin land the Apollo Lunar Module Eagle on the Moon.
     That day, I sat in a rented, refurbished garage with college friends in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan, the last summer of my life as a single woman. We sat stunned to watch two men walk on the Moon. And of all glorious and wonderful achievements, they returned to Earth to tell their story.
     My humble history with the Moon began naturally as a teenager laying on the lawn on a hot, summer night, looking up to the Moon and stars, dreaming. An escape from my crowded house, I took Sweetie, my Cocker Spaniel, to the backyard to stargaze.     
     Dear Reader, when I walked down to the henhouse tonight, clouds shrouded the Moon. However, if I awake at 3 a.m. tomorrow morning to the pull of the Moon, I’ll bathe my face in its silvery radiance, look for the chip in the rim.
     I’ll dream of mountain moonwalking.

​We married young. He of twenty-three years. I, less than a month shy of my twenty-first birthday.
     The year prior, I first laid eyes upon Melvin Underwood in the student union at Central Michigan University. He, enrolled in CMU’s Master’s Degree in Business Administration by his father’s funding. I, barely a sophomore, financially assisted by the National Defense Education Act.
     Destined to meet my future husband on that crisp, sunny, winter Friday, a roommate suggested we walk from the house we rented to the Union.
     My friend ratted and styled my short hair, embellished with a red band which looked rather preppy with my navy pea-coat. The occasion felt auspicious, so I slipped my camera in my coat pocket before we left our house with two other roommates.
     On campus, I snapped several photos before we entered the Union. And someone snapped a photo of my group. In the spirits of awe and adventure, my eyes scanned the large room filled with groups of fraternities and sororities. Couples sprinkled the more intimate spaces.
      My roommate nodded to a set of tables along the most distant wall of glass. Young men talked and laughed, ate and drank. “That’s the Theta Chi table,” she said. “The guy talking is Mel Underwood.”
     Mel spoke emphatically with his hands and mouth to the point we could read his lips. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, laughed, and shook his head. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”
     This past January 24, our two surviving daughters and I celebrated our fifty-fourth wedding anniversary in the hospital with our critically ill husband and father. After several days of medical tests, a cardiac catheterization revealed a congenital heart defect within a valve in his heart, explaining his heart’s 15 % ejection fraction of blood to other organs and extremities.
     This belated discovery explains the cause of many health complications throughout Mel’s life, and as he aged, his withdrawal from activities outdoors and with family and friends. Now, in our grief, we ask that relentless, unanswered question, “How did we miss the cause of his symptoms all these years?”
     One consolation is Mel drove as an outside salesman on the road for forty-five years, and his John Deere over thirty years, without incident or injury to himself or someone else. His new John Deere, now an orphan, waits in our garage with chains on the wheels, and blade on the front to plow our driveway.
      Dear Reader, if you cherish life, and particularly if you’re a male who doesn’t want to talk about your aches and pains, please seek and schedule an appointment with a referred cardiologist. If you don’t like him or her (I assure you this may happen), try another doctor. They’re plentiful.
     Yes, I’m thankful Mel and I married young. Opposites in many ways, he a northerner, I a southerner, we built a beautiful family and life together. As he wouldn’t want me to write about his decease, please don’t talk about it. Do your beloved wife and children a favor and call a cardiologist instead.    
​

​In 1965, I spent some babysitting money to buy a ticket for a “Patch of Blue”, a popular movie at the time. The story of Selina D’Arcey, a white teenager blinded at five-years old by her abusive mother, and later befriended by a kind, black man, left a lasting impression upon my life.
     For the movie was well titled. The patch of blue sky Selina recalls before blindness is a remarkable metaphor of memory’s grace to humankind. Often, remembering a patch of anything beautiful and profound will lift us from dark loneliness into joy’s great light.
     Although art is not the real thing, if well done, the song, movie, painting, play, or book conveys these virtues that transform the human predicament with truth, grace, and mercy.
    For example, when faced with a challenge, I may remember Pip, the narrator of Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations”. If this poor orphan became a gentleman, I may achieve the desires of my heart. You may.
     My bookshelves are packed with titles well named; Jane Austin’s “Pride and Prejudice” that illuminates my pride and prejudice with each read. On the opposite end of the literary spectrum, Harriette Arnow’s “The Dollmaker”, the epitome of wondrous truth-telling, speaks of my resourceful Appalachian roots.
     To tell of real-life spontaneous bright spots in my own family, I recall my California daughter’s silly childhood saying, “Sha-koo-ka-koo-dee”. She’d speak it, laugh with innermost sincerity, and repeat it. No wonder she enjoys teaching English as a second language.
     At times, I hear “Sha-koo-ka-koo-de” echo in my ear, and smile.
     More recently, when I gather our Isa Brown’s eggs, I think of our former Ameraucanas and their gorgeous blue eggs. If they hadn’t been a mean breed, I may have peeled blue eggshells instead of brown for lunch’s egg salad sandwich.  
    Yes, I do miss finding a perfect blue egg each morning in the nest. However, peace in the hen house is more desirable than the color blue.
    Often, however, our gift of memory reaches beyond the sensory to recall bright spots within the interior of our heart, mind, and soul. The moment we embraced truth, faith, hope, and love, their power created durable benefits upon our mind and heart to employ when we need strength.
     Yes, dear Reader, a bright spot visited me a few weeks ago and offered a promise I hold onto. As usual, the sky was cloudy when I walked down to the hen house at night to close the chute. As I walked up the hill, I resolved to refrain from complaining about gloomy skies.
     At sunrise the following morning, I sat up in bed and glanced to a bright spot on the shower curtain in my connecting bathroom. What a blessed sight! The sun shone through the window facing south and remained on the curtain, changing shape as the sun arose.
     As I hold other unmerited gifts, I keep the promise within the bright spot in my heart. I now extend a portion to you.

​“Never be ashamed of a scar. In the end, scars tell the story of our lives, everything that hurt us, and everything that healed us.” The Little Liar by Mitch Albom
 
In the Rochester Barnes & Noble, I found the end of the line behind a beautiful Asian woman. “Merry Christmas, my name is Iris,” I said.
     She smiled. “Merry Christmas. My name is Jean.”
     “I presume you’re also a fan of Mitch Albom’s stories.”
     “Yes, and I work for his charity, the SAY Play training center in Detroit.”
     I was aware of the orphanage Mitch founded in Haiti, yet hadn’t heard of his local charities for children. “Where in Detroit?”
     “Van Dyke and Seven Mile Roads,” Jean said.
     “That’s close to Algonac Street where my husband and I lived with our girls for seven years,” I replied.
     The man closest to us in line said, “My brother and his family also lived on Algonac Street.”
     Indeed, my children played with his niece and nephews.
     In the midst of this spontaneous preview to Mitch’s book-signing, the author arrived at 7 P.M., stood on a chair, and addressed the line of readers that trailed from one end of the store to the other.
     “This story is about a young boy named Nico who always tells the truth until the Nazis trick him into lying to persuade his townspeople into boarding box cars when they arrive in their town. The Nazis know if you tell a lie repeatedly, people will believe it, and the lie becomes the truth,” Mitch said.
     His book-signing began.
     Truth be told, I don’t read horror stories. Yet, I packed Mitch’s book in my carry-on for my flight to San Francisco.
     I’d hoped to complete the story airborne, yet the young woman to my right fascinated me with her crochet project and conversation. Furthermore, the dark, cramped space discouraged reading.
     Mitch’s little book waited until I returned home from my wonderful Christmas celebration with my two daughters, grandson, son-in-law and his parents, and two grand-dogs. I loved the exercise and companionship of walking the beach of the doggie park with my daughters and grand-dogs along San Francisco Bay.
     Once home, unpacked, and laundry put away, I settled into my cozy reading space with Mitch’s story, told in Truth’s voice. I often paused at Truth’s profound guidance and resolutions. Page 142, particularly, as stated above.
     What wisdom to include scars in the “the story of our lives”.
     Dear Reader, the scar on my lower lip is from four-years old when I climbed over the front porch’s railing, hit my lower lip, and my teeth cut open my flesh.
     At age nine, I stood on a swing seat in a neighbor’s yard, pumping high as I could when the swing slipped from under my feet. The metal seat hit my upper lip with downward force, sliced it open, and chipped a front tooth.   
     True, nothing as nightmarish as a wound from a dog bite when a Nazi “ordered the hounds on a group of prisoners”. Nonetheless, it’s my truth. And it heals me.
     

​One hundred and forty-three years after Thomas Edison and Edward Johnson, another inventor, introduced the world to electric lights on buildings, and strings of lights on Christmas trees, I decided to again illuminate our grape arbor and pergola.
     Our colored Christmas tree lights, and electric candles in our windows, their warm, golden glow the Irish once used to indicate their household kept the Christian faith, weren’t enough to lift my spirit this season. I needed light in the darkness of night that surrounds our home, country, and world.
     I desired a small portion of something stunning and beautiful as downtown Rochester’s Big Bright Light Show. And creative and amusing as the farmer further north on Rochester Road who decorated his tractor collection with colored lights.
     Both dazzle my eyes, cheer my soul, and humor my spirit.
    So I drove to ACE Hardware and bought enough white lights to adorn my grape arbor, the entrance to our backyard. After all, I’d finally pruned the vines this past fall and removed the cords of expired Christmas lights I’d hung years ago. The arbor’s bare ribs begged to glow again.
     So I wove the strands of white bulbs up, over, and down the arbor, and plugged in the prongs.
     Voila!
     Downhill, the pergola called my name for the same TLC. So I wove strands of white lights up, over, and down the pergola’s entrance, all my ambition and budget allowed for adorning the twenty-four-foot tunnel.
     For the little redbud tree by the greenhouse had also whispered in my ear, and I bought a box of red, blue, and green lights while I shopped at ACE. The redbud had grown graceful branches as I pruned her each spring, and deserved her own light show.
​     So I wound a cord of blue, red, and green tiny bulbs around her lower and middle branches, high as I could reach with my trusty step stool. I then set a timer from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. and connected it to an extension cord connected to the lights.   
     I held my breath and plugged in the timer.
     Another Voila!
     The darker the night grew, the brighter the colored lights sparkled on the redbud, like bubbles in a champagne glass.
     I said good-night and walked up the hill to warm up with a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
     Dear Reader, when night falls, I find myself gazing upon my grape arbor, pergola, and the little redbud tree, thankful for my place and time on this planet. Although mankind continues to wage war with one another, lie, cheat, steal, and kill, we are nonetheless blessed with luminaries to guide our way to truth and peace.
      For this I know: we are never alone. The star of Bethlehem, be it an alignment of planets or another cosmological phenomenon, hovered over the birthplace of our Savior two thousand years ago. He lives within my heart today, as He has since my childhood, many Christmases ago.
     

​In the long season of my empty nest, one gift to myself each Christmastime is Frank Capra’s 1946 fantasy, It’s a Wonderful Life. Filmed during World War II, released in 1946, it seems I’ve known from childhood the story of George Bailey and his beloved Bedford Falls Savings and Loan.
     For my father loved movies and television, and it’s entirely likely my sisters and I first watched It’s a Wonderful Life when it first aired in 1956.
     One Christmas when a younger mother, I introduced my three daughters to George Bailey’s and Mary Hatch’s romance. One of my favorite scenes is Mary’s high school graduation dance where she and George gather an ecstatic crowd. The two kick and stomp the Charleston as they dance closer to the edge of the gymnasium floor, opened with intent for George and Mary to fall backward into the swimming pool.
     Cinematic invention at its best.
     About a decade ago, I added the DVD of the movie to my collection to relax for a few hours during the hurried Christmas season. Without fail, I’m reminded this truly is a wonderful life, regardless of all the Mr. Potters, thieves who sit in high places of power and influence.
     Last night, after packing and wrapping gifts for celebrating this Christmas with my California family in their home, I reclined in my reading chair. Again, I laughed when Mary and George fell into the swimming pool.
     I reserved the last half of the movie for this evening, the night before my departure for the San Francisco Airport. I’ll watch Mary and George’s family grow to four children. Poor Uncle Billy will unwittingly leave the day’s cash deposits for Bailey Bros. Building and Loan wrapped in a newspaper in Mr. Potter’s bank.
     Deceptive, greedy, and hateful, Mr. Potter will tell George he’s worth more dead than alive.
     George will believe his false accusation and determine to end his life.
     Upon the prayers of Bedford Falls reaching God in Heaven, Clarence, the angel, is summoned to save George.
     With much difficulty, Clarence guides his charge through Bedford Falls, reveals what his mother, Mary, and Bedford Falls would be like if he’d never been born. Clarence resolves, “You’ve lived a wonderful life, George.”
      The angel fulfills his earthy mission and earns his wings. The people of Bedford Falls rally to bail George Bailey out of Mr. Potter’s evil plot.
     Dear Reader, America needed this fantasy at the end of World War II. We needed its message during the Korean War. The Vietnam War. And perhaps we would better understand the present war with Israel and Hamas if we prayed to God who reigns high above us, and within us. 
     “For a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us; and the government will rest on His shoulders; and His name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6    
       I celebrate Christmas, pray for my family, neighbors, and our country. Thank God for this wonderful life. 

​“House plants are an exacting pleasure, and if we are not willing to meet their exactions we need not wonder if the pleasure be short.” Richardson Wright, “Gardeners Bed-Book”, December 11 entry
 
My mother poured Twin Pines milk into a small bowl, dipped a rag into it, and washed the leaves of her houseplants. She smiled at the shiny results.
     I applied milk to the leaves of the begonia plant that Gram, my grandmother-in-law, transplanted from her window box into a pot. My first houseplant, Gram’s thriving begonia welcomed me in the morning, pink petals hanging from a macramé hanger in our rented townhouse.
     Four years later, after sharing begonia cuttings with family, neighbors, and friends, I hung Gram’s gift in the sunny, kitchen window of our first house. Afterward, a hanging, fragrant hoya found its place in our dining room. Preoccupied with a kindergartener and infant, I neglected to wash the leaves of my plants. They bloomed and thrived nonetheless.
     After our family of five moved to a larger house with plentiful sunny windows, I added a large, potted cactus to my collection. A species requiring little care, Cactus abided unnoticed on our fireplace hearth.
     Until the day a daughter heard a strange sound coming from inside Cactus. I examined it from crown to trunk.  
     Yes, I heard gnawing and promptly carried Cactus to the backyard where it imploded to reveal tunnels of hungry insects.
     Nowadays, the orchid, African violet, and hoya are my favored indoor plants. All gifts and cuttings, I seldom take time for the pleasure of washing the orchids’ and hoya’s leaves with milk. I water them and they thrive.      
     Before the first frost this past fall, I transferred my potted succulents from my gardens to the only sunny spot in our basement where they’ve hibernated several winters. Due to their expense, succulents are worth my time and cleanup, for they fill garden gaps nicely and provoke a smile when they flower.
    New to my garden plants to hole up this winter is Passiflora incarnate, for which I paid a small fortune this past summer. She budded and flowered abundantly throughout the growing season, and the November day I loaded her on the dolly for basement stowage.  
     I rejoiced when new vines appeared within weeks, reaching for sunlight. Then small buds formed. Was this plant going to bloom in captivity?
     Indeed! A purple passionflower (aka Passiflora incarnate) now blossoms beside my red chicken boots in the basement. I found her pretty face this afternoon, exotic as any blossom is created to be.
     Dear Reader, the time and labor invested in this temporary houseplant is more than worth the pleasure of surprise. And there’s a bud beside the flower waiting for her moment of glory, with tiny buds appearing throughout the vines.
      It seems the pleasure of this blooming may be mine for a while, which makes me smile like Mom when I pull on my chicken boots in the morning and pull them off in the evening.   

Andy laying the foundation for the hen house

​I met Andy, a licensed builder, in a Michigan State University extension class in 2004. Adapting to a serious health diagnosis, Andy sought employment to suit his new limitations. And I was a writer who needed a handyman to help build my vision of a lavender farm.
     Andy afterward raised my henhouse and compost bins. Then he transformed an orphaned Coachmen into my little Happy Camper. He nestled her beside the pine cove in what I call “my back acres”.
      Sometimes, after weeding and harvesting lavender, I’d rest on Happy’s bed and pray for Andy. The evidence of his friendship and God’s faithfulness surrounded me in peace and gratitude.  
     Whatever I needed that fit within Andy’s abilities, he provided with a sketch, estimate, and an invoice to follow the completed project—the beautiful, hillside steps he built with trees harvested from the creek on his property, for instance. I planted Echinacea along the steps’ handrails.   
    One day I couldn’t remove a small tree growing behind Happy Camper, and Andy was up north fishing for the week. His eyes would light up whenever he said, “I’m going up to The River.”
     In Andy’s stead, I called my friend Erna, a gardener extraordinaire who lives nearby. “I need help removing a sapling growing too close to Happy Camper, and Andy’s out of town,” I said.
     “I’ll talk with Wally,” Erna replied.
      Wally, her husband, showed up with Erna. They carried an axe, and a Sawzall stowed away in its case. I stood by in awe as Wally toppled the wildling in seconds.
     “I’ve got to buy a Sawzall!” I said.
     Then came the tree’s roots. Wally, a gray, tall, fit man, picked up the axe and began chopping. 
     “Wally, I can do this. I do own an axe,” I said.
     “No. I will finish.”
     And he did.
     Days after, my husband brought home a Sawzall and simplified my life.
     After a decade of Andy and Erna rescuing me from one farm chore after another, I closed my lavender business at the end of the 2014 season. On a chilly, drizzly, spring day, Erna joined some former farmhands to remove lavender plants and weed cloth to reclaim the southern plot to grass.
     In June 2015, Andy succumbed to the sickness that had plagued him. The henhouse, Happy Camper, and hillside steps testify of our friendship and mutual devotion to husbandry.
     Sadly, I lost the man who’d become like a younger brother.
     This December second, two former farmhands and I visited Wally and Erna to sing them Christmas carols. Erna opened their door and waved us into the foyer where her Christmas tree almost touched the vaulted ceiling.
      Dear Reader, today, December ninth, I attended Wally’s funeral service in honor of his remarkable life. A German immigrant from Ukraine who married a German immigrant from Romania, I’ve lost an older brother.
     A transplant from Appalachia, I thank God for His lovingkindness to bring us together in my back acres to help build a vision. 

My nativity scene gifted to me over twenty Christmases from my mother-in-law, Rosie Kishalonis Underwood

​I drove by the little lake at the end of our winding road where two white swans abide. The past thirty-some years, I’ve seldom spied this bashful pair swimming together on the lake. My timing has never coincided with a glimpse of them gliding along with their chicks, named “cygnets”.
     Reeds and other vegetation thrive around the pond’s edge, ideal conditions for nourishment, nesting, and protection from predators. It’s a special day when I glimpse the white feathers of the male, “cygnet olor”, and female, “pen”, if only a second.
     Considering the lifespan of a mute swan could exceed the years I’ve lived on this former cow path, it is possible the pair is the same I first saw three decades ago.
     Then, at 8:40 a.m. Sunday morning, there stood two swans preening on the pond’s shore. From black knob and orange/red beak to webbed feet, they faced the road. As if to say “hello”, one swan flapped its powerful wings and extended its graceful neck.
    The wide, feathery wingspan and the couple wading the water together settled into memory. The serene effect was similar to finding our two cats sleeping under the Christmas tree the previous night. As if in some exotic kingdom, the cats slept in luxury under white lights and ornaments.
      I reserved the tree’s upper branches for the fragile, blue bulbs I inherited from my mother, safe from the cats. When our daughters were young, my mother-in-law gifted them Precious Moments figurines to annually recall their childhoods. Now, my grown grandchild’s artwork adorns the tree.
     Every ornament came from a loved one, and tells a story.
     I’d just decorated the tree and concealed the stand with the silky, burgundy, quilted skirt I found on sale some Christmas past. On cue, Cuddles nuzzled in the soft fabric under the branches. Her sister Mitty soon joined her.
     Again, they claimed their favorite Advent napping place as if their sixth sense knew I would soon infringe upon their cozy bed with one wrapped package after another.
     Eventually, the Christmas gifts will disappear. Depending how this tree sheds needles, sometime after New Year’s Day I’ll retrieve from the basement the big, battered box the cats know well. They’ll sniff around as I begin dismantling the tree—and, to their disapproval, I’ll remove their Christmas blanket.
     I’ll also stow away the fifteen ceramic nativity characters my mother-in-law fired in her basement kiln for my gifts the span of twenty years.
    For each Christmas I place Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus in the manger, and the angel, upon a small table in a dining room corner. I add four shepherds with three sheep nosing the infant’s feet. Three wise men from afar and the donkey complete the scene.
    Dear Reader, I ponder again the lowly beast of burden and its fidelity to Mary and Josef—and know again the tranquility of two swans preening, our two cats sleeping under the tree this Advent season.
    And I sing, “Joy to the World! The Lord has come!”

My grand dog Lily snoozes in my study's reading chair.

​In November 1974, our firstborn’s fourth birthday and Thanksgiving Day came in the last week of the month. My husband and I packed our suitcases and left our Warren townhouse for his parents’ home in Grand Rapids.
     Becky loved to visit Grandma Rosie. Grandma hid yummy surprises throughout her large, colonial house for Becky to find. The fun began with Grandma’s vintage coffee grinder which promised Hershey Kisses.
     And Grandpa, Uncle Miles, and Uncle Mark guaranteed triple attention. Under Grandpa’s supervision, the boys took Becky on snowmobile rides around their backyard. The first and only grandchild in the Underwood family until her two sisters arrived in April 1975 and November 1976, all eyes focused on Becky from the moment we entered Grandma and Grandpa Underwood’s house.
     As usual, that 1974 Thanksgiving we lingered around the kitchen table until time to leave. Then the wall phone rang and Grandma Rosie answered. She handed me the receiver. “It’s one of your sisters.”
     “Hello?”
     “Iris, haven’t you heard about the snowstorm?”  
     Now, the Underwood family kept a television on in each room, except the dining room and Grandma’s “rumpus” room.
     “No, we’ve not heard one snowstorm alert,” I said.
     “If you don’t want to get snowed in, you’d better leave immediately.”
     History records our harrowing drive home on Grand River Avenue to Eight Mile Road and Hoover was one of thousands that “Super Snowstorm” of 19.3 inches.  
     In contrast, forty-nine Novembers later, not one snowflake fell yesterday on our drive to and from our daughter’s house for Thanksgiving dinner.
     When we entered the side door, Lily greeted us with her two best neighborhood buddies, Stringer and Alli.
     “You’re dog sitting?” I asked Ruth.
     She nodded. “They’ll be back tonight.”
     Although I’d never met Stringer, Alli, and their owners, I’ve heard Ruth speak of them and Stringer, a wolf breed. Alli, a Chihuahua mix and adopted after her previous owner passed, is new to the neighborhood.
     Lily, the youngest at three years, ran circles (literally) around Stringer and Alli, their muzzles gray at twelve years old. Alli’s short legs and age excluded her from Lily’s and Stringer’s boisterous play and walk in the woods with Ruth and me.
     After our delicious dinner, kitchen cleanup, and walk, we all gathered on the mammoth sofa before one of Ruth’s televisions and watched the conclusion of the Lions game.
     Just like my cats do, Alli settled on my lap.
     “Here, Mom, wrap Alli in her blanky. She loves it.”
     Eventually, Alli’s dark eyes, gray muzzle, and pointed ears emerged from her blanket. I noticed the divide at the tip of her left ear. “What happened?” I asked Ruth.
     “An infection.”
     Dear Reader, as a young mother, I never dreamt I would be the grandmother to a black lab named Lily. Furthermore, I could not imagine my third-born’s heart would melt at the brown eyes and gray muzzle of a tiny dog named Alli.
     And for the record, I’m sorry the Lions lost to the Packers 29-22.