For all that I have written about my granddaughter, Summer, including pictures of her in the dumpster and the “I think they’re Chinese” people, I feel I must, in all fairness, mention that she won the Outstanding Science Student of the year. Come to think of it, maybe she is planning on learning ways to blow me up real good. She is also extremely good at math and is in the advanced class, but she didn’t win that award . . . Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she didn’t get the “Why was six afraid of seven? Seven Eight Nine” joke until many years later when she saw it in subtitles. Sometimes – maybe a lot of times – when she is picking on me for being old and wrinkly and other things, I look over my glasses and say, “Seven, eight, nine” and she exclaims, “I was little; I didn’t think about homophones!”

Apparently LZP was left speechless when he found out about my scooter because I received this photo, entitled Biker Chicks in my email.

If LZP’s brother, Der Bingle, were to send me a similar photo, the chicks would be Peeps. Or not. Maybe he would have to use real chicks for making a photo like this, because thousands of Peeps would have be harmed (ingested) otherwise.

********UPDATE**********

And now we have a suggested helmet to wear . . .

Today the high is supposed to be 49 degrees; I think last week we broke a record with 80 or 81. Well, it’s not last week anymore. And it is overcast with the dampness of yesterday’s rain lingering on. That’s not so bad; it’s  a bit of time to enjoy the little firestove and read a little. I found a book at Mother’s that, I think, is titled London Transports; it is a collection of short stories. I read a few in the evening last week while stretched out on her sofa in a room lit by the reading light over my shoulder and the flickering of the gas heater turned up so it had actual flames. Mother had a tendency to heat by pilot light.

Back to the stories. One was about a 29 year old virgin who was to be married and went into a bookstore to ask for a book on, yes, I am going to type it, sex. She told the proprietor she had a niece who was going to be married and needed information. The gentleman coughed and suggested she share her experience with her niece. She she told him she couldn’t because she was a nun.

She responded to his surprised look by remarking that nuns no longer wore “nun clothes” and he said his sister was a nun and her order had them donning shorter dresses and modified head coverings. Not to fear, she blurted out that she worked in a travel agency and was supposed to blend in with tourists. His mystified look prompted her to add it was her job to arrange travel arrangements for nuns serving as missionaries.

Maybe it was a porn bookstore . . . I don’t remember. But I was thinking, “You read this, Mother? You who had me screen all videos and DVD’s so I could forewarn you about closing your eyes or, if necessary, fast forward.” I just realized I didn’t investigate the rest of the stack of books waiting to be read.  Or the stack she had already processed. Maybe on this chilly day I need to go stretch out by Mother’s gas heater again . . .

A book, a Diet Coke, Sydney sleeping on my feet, warmth from the heater and the smell of woodsmoke in the beams of the house.