A definite chill in the air this morning and we have a fire in the den and that means warm and toasty feet and the comforting smell of wood smoke – not so much inside but out by the door when you come in from taking her nibs to school.

I decided to bite the bullet and carry an armload of wood down to the basement and start a fire there, let it freshen up the air and lift spirits for vacuuming and picking up. In fact, I have talked myself into taking a shower down there and getting dressed in front of the fireplace – but first I have to talk others into bringing down more wood. Maybe I should carry a piece of firewood with me as I beseech them to go out to the woodpile.

I did not get to go all the way back to those days when I freely exercised in my experiment last night; the phone rang and it was Glenda my cousin from down around Covington. We are coordinating my mother’s and my Memorial Day trip to the cemetery. Maybe this year we will stay overnight with Glenda. We have been going down and back in one day – Mother driving down and me driving home, with her riding like a crash dummy waiting for impact.

Last year I took a picture of the back of the truck we followed on one of the  little two lane state roads that Mother insists on taking. Lots of towns to go through that way: Goshen, Warsaw, Rochester, Logansport, Frankfort. We catch the interstate long enough to go past Crawfordsville and then exit onto the 41 to head to  Kingman. I remember my father said when he was a boy sometimes his father would take him out to watch the men build that road.

But I am rambling; right now the sun is cheery and so is the fire and I need to get clean . . . and get more firewood down to the basement.