October 8, 1926. Mother would have been 87. I thought about it yesterday and talked a little about how she had hidden her illness for a year and got choked up and said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore . . .” I thought about her birthday today again, driving down to Fort Wayne for an early appointment. The doctor shared he was having a “discussion” with his cellular phone company about his “lemon” phone and that he had a splitting headache. I told him my special headache “cure”: half coke, half diet coke, aspirin and tylenol. (The latter two not being already combined in some pill.)

He had a new receptionist and when I mentioned the sun’s glare turning east on Dupont from Lima Rd, she nodded and said she came the same way, being from Albion. So I asked her about the nursing home there and found out she had worked there in the dietary division. She knew Kathryn and others and we commiserated about A.C., who had participated so much in her hometown for decades until she developed a disease affecting her brain and caused her to announce to one and all at every meal: I don’t like cheese. At one point, she ushered an aide out of her room with the admonishment to “Never bring cheese in here again!” (And I felt sort of bad about kidding with the aide about the Green Bay Packers and the stands filled with cheeseheads.)

Then I came home, after stopping briefly at GoodWill where I found two adult very nice terry cloth robes for the price of $3 each. I got a sandwich and a drink and looked around on the internet, coming to a blog a visit. And, there in the first bit was my name. She wrote some very nice things about me. It left me humbled and teary-eyed.

And then I thought about its being Mother’s birthday and I wondered if she knew that. Had I written about that? It all came together to touch me deeply. And, later, doubly humbled.