My 15-year-old son is still bringing me flowers. He dug up the tiny vase (it belonged to Aunt Jean) and set it on my desk in the morning before I got to the computer. Too bad I can't get him to clean off the desk for me; it's in a bad way and due for a scrubbing. It gets this way periodically and I just keep placing pile on top of pile until they're falling over and there's no room for one more piece of paper. Finally I can't stand it anymore and spend a half-hour organizing and dusting everything.

My other son, who turns 20 next Saturday, asked me the other day, "Mom, am I going to be a dad someday?"

Now there's a tough question. Would Emil be able to care for a child? I don't think so. We had a talk about it, but he wasn't interested in a long drawn-out conversation. I think he just wanted to know whether fatherhood was inevitable.

We will, however, have to approach the subject again with an eye to birth control. This is not as simple as it may sound, because Emil, though I believe he has the normal physical desires of someone his age, does not have the intellectual comprehension of your average young man. So it will be like teaching sex education to a six-year-old. I don't really know how to go about it. Hm. Maybe I'll wait till I've sat down for my annual meeting with his special needs teacher in a week or two, and see what she has for ideas.

***

Scott has been working over at Golden Grain Farm this week. He has wired-in a light (at my request) over the kitchen sink and finished off a kitchen cabinet that he amputated (at his insistence), removing a lazy susan that didn't turn and replacing it with usable shelving. He finished up with some sanding, hole-filling, glueing and whatnot, all time-consuming with nothing obvious to show for it. I'll go over today and clean up after him. Least I can do.

With the rain, there is now water coming into the basement over there. Which means the water table is high. Which means we can't dig around the foundation and put in weeping tile right away, because the hole will just fill with water. He's gone to town to find the right kind of pump to put in a hole in the basement floor. All I can say is, I am glad he knows what needs to be done. If it was me by myself, I probably wouldn't even realize any action was necessary. Till the banks were overflowing ....

***

In other news—and this may be no big deal to some, but for me it's a breakthrough—in my garden digging this spring I have picked up three earthworms and moved them to safety, without gloves on. Yes! What is happening to me? I still get the weebie-jeebies at the thought of touching one that is squished, but was surprised to find myself actually picking up these moist creatures in my bare hands! And okay, I admit it, I talked to them while moving them to safety.

Me and the earthworm gods, we got a thing going on.

A day of cool rainy weather inspired me to spend Sunday afternoon baking. I whipped up a double batch of bran muffins, put honey granola cereal into the oven to brown, and threw together some whole wheat bread dough. While Everett kneaded the giant glob for 15 minutes (this length of time is the reason I haven't baked bread since my kneading machine was flood-damaged over a year ago), I drove into town and picked Grandma up.

When we got back, we had apple pie (thanks Aunt Marj, it was delicious, and by the way I have been whipping through Melissa's book and will return it at the farmers' market on Saturday) with our tea. Then it was suppertime, and I insisted that Grandma, who was still full from the pie, eat something anyway. She managed to get half a toasted denver sandwich down her gullet, and insisted on drying the dishes afterward. After two years in the lodge, where all the cooking and cleaning is done for her, she hasn't forgotten how. No surprise there.

On Tuesday I went to town to take her to the hospital lab for blood tests. She has this scabby sore on her ear that never seems to heal. The hospital is only across the street from the lodge where she lives, but the day was cool so I drove her there and back. It took all of 15 minutes, but when we got back to the lodge she asked me where we had just been, and what for. I reminded her about the blood test. She said she didn't have any blood taken. After we got her coat off and hung up in the closet, I pulled up her sleeve and pointed out the tiny band-aid on the inside of her elbow. Evidence. Then she believed me.

On Sunday afternoon, several times she said she wasn't sure where she would have to go after she left my place. She didn't remember where she lives, she told me. This is a little disconcerting.

Her eyesight has failed terribly, too, since the retinal hemorrhage. She can't see well enough to zip up her own jacket, though she'll keep trying... and trying... and trying ... until finally I dare offer to help.

I must also remember to put a Rubbermaid stool into the van so she can get in and out more easily. At least now she is not taking my head off when I offer my arm as support during her exits and entrances. That one step is a very big step, for her. "A lot of people have to help me now," she remarked.

***

Shelly, I answered your email just yesterday or a day or two ago, not sure exactly. It was short, just saying that I'm receiving your mails, but it sounds like you are not getting mine.