It's Mom's birthday today. I don't have an image adequate to relate to you how much I wish she was here to give a present to.

When I saw Grandma on Saturday I was concerned, of course, and asked for some details. When and how had that happened, and where?

Well, she thinks about two weeks ago (and how come I didn't hear anything about it? or see it? surely I've been there in the past two weeks) she just fell down out in the yard, must have slipped on ice. But "I didn't feel it," she said, rubbing her forehead somewhat curiously.

This is why— one of the reasons— we worry about her there on her own. What if she'd knocked herself out, or been unable to get up and laid out there in the snow without being seen?

As soon as I arrived at her place on Sunday to pick Everett up, I was summoned into Grandpa's room to help make the bed. This is one of the quilts Mom made:

In honour of Mom and her love of barbershop music, I hereby give you this. Turn up your speakers and go click on the horses.