There are so many papers among my parents things; some have been passed from my right hand to left hand and back like soldiers digging holes and refilling them. Today, while going through stuff again, I noticed quite a few newspaper clippings in one envelope, which contained old, old scraps not needed for these present times. You know, when you’re rummaging through things, thinking, “Okay, Mother, where’s the manual for the gas heater?” . . .  Well, stopping to browse isn’t going to warm your tootsies.

But, today I stopped. Among the yellowed obituaries, I think this is the oldest one:

He was my great-great grandfather. Oh, and there’s a typo – it should be Briar Creek. His wife was born in Vermont, moved to New York and then came out to Indiana. She walked . . . I’m a wimp; I complain when the gate we’re leaving from is at the end of the terminal – no matter that I’m going to be halfway across the country in less than four hours.

Oh . . . the redheads at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse say they have a program that will toughen me up.