My middle grandchild, Colin, is in the autistic spectrum and not in the part where one sits in the corner and calculates with lightning speed what day of the week matches with a randomly given date in history. He spent over a year at a residential facility and yesterday he returned and it is stressful.

I mention this in this public place because it is stressful, because people are conflicted in their feelings and because it is fairly hard to write as freely as I do without making the background of my days clear. I don’t know if that is true or not – maybe I just want to be able to say “Oh, dear, this is difficult.” That is not the most noble of things, and in light of my just writing about Thomas Bickle and his family, a pathetically “pity me” remark.

But, that is me . . . and I know it.

So, anyway, we are moving on. Well, not literally, but a restful balcony in San Diego doesn’t sound bad. Literally, we are going on with our days and today, to lessen the confusion when people come in to make plans with Colin’s parents, Der Bingle and I are taking the dogs up to my mother’s to check on things and then we’ll go over to the cemetery – not because she will know I am there, but because I just have to.

The problem is that it is cold outside and Sydney is old and has liver problems; I am worried about this and am contemplating taking two cars. I can go ahead and get part of the house warmed up and, maybe I’ll get a little tree in a window.

I have a lot of these little trees – very compact and nicely decorated; I get them at GoodWill and I have come to the conclusion that a lot of them are from an older person’s home or a nursing home room table. I have this idea that when I buy them I am acknowledging the life of someone who has passed away. I can’t say that they all stay pristine – over the years, some of the elegant decorations have fallen off, to be replaced by ornaments from grandkids. Yes, Sponge Bob Square Pants wound up on one; I sigh and then think that is it the way it should be.