It was another grandchild weekend.
My son and two of my granddaughters came for a long weekend.
My daughter-in-love was away with her cousins for the weekend.
My house looked as it did when my children were young.

“Grandma’s toys” were all over the floor.
It doesn’t matter that their own Daddy played with these same toys.
To them, they are Grandma’s toys and that’s all that matters.
I like seeing the toys get new life.

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I bought an old fashioned blotter.
Not the kind you keep on your desk that is placed inside a leather rectangle.
This is the kind of blotter you hold in your hand.
This is the kind of blotter that is rolled over whatever you just wrote on paper.

I didn’t buy the blotter out of nostalgia.
I bought the blotter out of necessity.
It is a left handed thing.
That’s not a excuse; it is a real problem, since we write left to right on our paper.

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The toys my children played with are getting another turn.
This time, they are being used by my three granddaughters.
The toys are in great shape, though they have been well played.
They have been well played by five children.

They were well played by the children who came to my home with their mothers.
Whether it be for tea around my kitchen table, or Wednesday Bible study, the toys were used.
A friend asked me if any of the pieces were missing from any of the toys.
I could tell her, without exaggeration, that no pieces were missing.

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It was the only reason you were allowed to get out of your seat.
It was a reason that was acceptable.
Some abused the privilege.
Some saw it as a way to take a little walk.

I loved to sharpen my pencil in my elementary school classroom.
The pencil sharpener usually hung on the wall.
Often, the sharpener was in the back of the room.
Sometimes, it was in the front.

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I remember when I was of age to vote.
I remember the thrill of being able to go into the voting booth by myself.
When I was little, I went into the voting booth with my mother.
I never understood the levers she pulled or why she needed to close the curtain.

She explained something about privacy.
She explained something about the fact that it was a privilege to vote.
She never talked about her choices.
She only talked about its importance.

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I always stand when I write.
I do not have a standing desk.
I actually stand at my kitchen island.
It is just the right height.

I have water handy, usually on the counter behind me.
Sometimes, I have a snack.
A nectarine, in pieces looking like a half moon, are on a plate.
I will often put a few nuts on the plate as well.

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I saw it.
I noticed it as I was driving home.
I saw it as I drove past the tree line.
It was a tinge of green.

Can it be?
Is spring really around the corner?
Will the brown, that seems to be winter’s signature, finally disappear?
Will everything that appears dead come alive again?

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You see it in the movies.
I remember it quite vividly.
I used to go there with my grandfather.
I would sometimes go after school with my mother.

I loved sitting up at the counter in the swivel stools.
I loved to watch the waitress behind the counter as she took everyone’s orders.
I was fascinated by her hair net, with every strand of hair tucked neatly inside.
I was amazed that she could keep her uniform clean even though she was handling food.

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It was her job when she was in middle school.
She was quite good at it.
Two families knew who to call whenever they went away.
She was their official pet sitter.

This daughter is now the mother of my granddaughter.
However, back then, she baby sat and pet sat for a few families.
The house next door to us hired her often.
They had adult children to visit; they knew their dog and two cats were in good hands.

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It has been established that there are a few things I do not like to do.
They must get done, so I do them.
I have to try very hard to find some redemptive value in these particular jobs.
Perhaps doing them for those I love is enough.

The first job on my list that I do not enjoy doing is ironing.
I find that even shirts that are no iron have to be ironed.
I tend to wait until I have quite a bit of shirts hanging in the laundry room.
When I see ten of my husband’s shirts, I know that it is time to get out the ironing board.

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