This 17-year-old bride would be turning 67 today.
Happy Birthday Mom, wherever you are.

It’s not so much during the day that I think about Mom, about her illness and dying. It’s in the mornings when first I wake, and at night before falling asleep, or when I wake up in the wee small hours. Then I remember things, and am sad and a little bit mad, and my eyes leak.

Here's Scott's mother. It's not a flattering picture; doesn't do her justice and she may rightfully slay me if she finds out I've posted it. She was busy playing with her new toy, a laptop, while I was over there doing some photocopying yesterday. We're applying for a grant to do some energy-saving renovations at Golden Grain Farm, and naturally they want copies of every financial statement we have, to prove that we're poor enough to apply.

I found (tucked into an old photo album) a poem given to me by a beau for my birthday in 1981, when I turned 22 . Some of it sounds like it was lifted from a well-known poem, the name of which I can't put my finger on; but other parts are surely original. Yeah it's sappy ... but read to the end for what he really thinks of my "beauty":

Your beauty has no shadow

Not like a mountain, a gem, or rose,
For these, when to a light exposed
Cast darkness in their wakes

Yours is like a candle's flame,
Ever changing and yet the same
Where 'ere I go, long as it takes
I bask in the warm, white glow it makes.

Still, I think I love your face the best.

A trusted voice, your warm embrace,
Your humour's light, and movement's grace.
I've much admired your quiet faith.

For we both know that I've had days
When I've had faith in naught but hazy
space. A void. No hope.
With you I couldn't be so much a dope.

But wondering what I most care for
It's that monkey face that I adore
I love when you simply hold my hand
When we walk, or talk, or quiet stand
And watch as nature smiles.

I know you're like a bird's sweet song
Your spirit free, your stay's not long
But when like one we laugh your guiles
To make a peace to come a while

But enough of that. I'll let it rest.
I know what I remember best.

Although it sometimes
slobbers on the pillow in the night
And though its breath
is often gross as hell come morning's light

Still, all in all,
I think that I just love your face
the best of all.

~ Warren D.

Little sister Joan did not like this particular boyfriend one bit. I have never been exactly sure why; she met him just once and for a few moments, and she was only about 13 years old. But he offended her somehow, and even after all these years she still crinkles her nose if his name is mentioned.

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In Diana's bathroom: "There is an Oprah magazine, and The Secret, by Rhonda Byrne. Pop psychology, both of 'em, and great for quick reads."