Just a bit of evening light is coming through the windows and individual lamps make pools of cozy light here and there. A lot of us have our butts on one chair and our feet on another – that is, we each have our own two chairs. Glenn Miller is on the music player and right now we’re listening to Glenn Miller and “There’ll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover” and it’s relaxing.

We’re thinking of the cemetery in Kingman, Indiana because we found a three-week lost letter today from Phyllis about how the flower on my dad’s grave is flourishing. When I say Phyllis, I sort of mean Phyllis and Duane – Duane being my oldest cousin on Daddy’s side. I can remember their wedding when I was pretty young; it’s always been Phyllis and Duane. Duane was the star figure in one on my dad’s bedtime stories; I can remember lying in bed in Bloomington, Indiana and choosing “The Night Duane broke his arm” often. It was a basketball game – a 1950’s Indiana basketball game.

I asked Duane and Phyllis to be The Robert Grismore Geranium Watering Brigade since they live down the road a bit. Phyllis was worried when they left to visit their son Tim, but when she got back there were 17 blooms on it.

Thank you, Phyllis & Duane, from Mother and me, and, of course, the man who rests there.