The deed is done. We shopped in Wynyard. We shopped in Wadena. And last but not least, we shopped in Kelvington. And voila, there we found the best deal, locally, on a ceramic-top stove with a self-cleaning oven. It now sits in the back of my van. How long will it be till it gets into the house? Your guess is as good as mine. I'll wager one week. Anyone want to bet money?

Lord but it was cold out there today. You couldn't have paid me enough to browse at a yard sale.

***

Yesterday we went to Wynyard to look at tombstones and verify to Dad that the one he picked out via brochure appeared to be of acceptable quality. I did not make it past reading possible epitaphs without tears, right in front of several strangers. Who'd have thought that would set me off? But it did, and badly.

Anyway, the deed is done. I chose some personalized stenciling to go above each name, as Mom and Dad will share the headstone beneath which his ashes, too, will be buried one day. Mom's passions — quilting and music — will be represented by graphics chiseled in the stone. I didn't see one of ice cream, darn it! And above Dad's name will be carved a golf bag, as he's gone at that game like a full-time job for so many years now. And I picked out the one epitaph that leaped out at me. Dad okayed it, so it must not be too soppy ... but I'm going to keep you in suspense for now.

***

We took Grandma to Kelvington with us. We had delivered a small flower arrangement to her and had one to deliver to Scott's grandmother, so after loading up the new stove we visited with her for almost two hours. She had a number of stories to tell of her life in the Dirty '30s, about people abandoning their farmland and homes during the drought on the Prairies and moving up here to the Parkland, where there was more rainfall and one could eat out of one's garden, if nothing else. My grandmother, age 89, sat quietly listening to her elder, age 97, talk. I've heard these particular stories before but I never tire of them. She and her young husband spent their first winter up here — a particularly cold one — in a tent set up inside a framed building (if I've got that right). There would have been many 30F below days and nights.

***

Well it's 11:30. I was nearing the end of a mystery novel last night before going to sleep, so will be glad to get to bed and back to it. Scott's been asleep since 9 o'clock (oh my exciting Saturday nights! I wouldn't trade them) and fell asleep several times sitting up in the van on the way to Kelvington this afternoon. Had a headache too, poor boy.

***

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" Everett said to me matter-of-factly this morning. That kid is either going to be a silver-tongued devil, or he already is.

"Yes you have, as a matter of fact," I replied. The instances are becoming fewer and farther between, but they are not the kinds of comments a mother forgets. He's 13 now, so they can't go on much longer, and before you know it, he won't remember ever harbouring such sentiments about his mother's middleaged visage. He'll probably wholeheartedly deny ever saying such things. But I'll always remember how sweet they sounded, coming out of his innocent child's mouth.