Mixed

DW has sent me three books, from Amazon. I have started the History of America in Guns. I am interested, even though it's clear he wrote it for men. Of course, I've only just begun, as the song says.

These books are a gift, most unexpected, very thoughtful. And I have thanked D sincerely. I am pretty sure it's sincerely. I meant it that way.

I brought the box in last night, saying, "Okay, what did I order and forget I ordered?" Couldn't come up with anything. But as soon as I opened it, I knew it was from D.

I always hated having to do a book report after reading a book. That was school. They always wanted you to do a book report. To prove you read the book, I'm sure. Yes, there are ways of writing a book report without reading the book. It's hard, though. Did teachers really read book reports? Maybe we should have required a report on the book report. Ha!

Well anyway, it certainly discouraged my reading, dimmed my interest in reading, killed what interest I had. Get it? I'd rather be out on the playground, and so on. I was always an impatient reader, anyway. Get to it, author. I'm still that way.

So now I have these books from D and he looks forward to our conversation after each one. Book report. Pressure. Ugh.

Updater

Returned at midnight last night from a very pleasant visit in Pennsylvania. Visited with Alyce and Ben, Ann and Jeremy, Charlie, Johnny, Edmund, Willamina, and other Darringtons. Had my first--and likely last--pedicure.

Came home to Boise to find:

• My family here well, I believe
• My house still standing
• My new roof still looking good
• My air conditioner working well
• My Rose of Sharon in bloom with its lovely, delicate light lavender flowers
• My lawn looking terrible, and I don't believe it's merely the heat
• Fires behind the nearby foothills
• The air smoke-filled
• The battery in my car dead. Again

No need to say how the dead battery makes me feel. AAA will come in another hour to jump start it, but then what I do not know. I cannot depend on it. Apparently.

Here in Southeast Boise

Last night I put my pajama bottoms on, came downstairs, checked the doors, and went up, saying to myself as I passed the front door, "No one is going to come to my door tonight." Justification, beyond the heat, for not putting on pj tops.
But this is not the point of the story.

As soon as I got upstairs, the doorbell rang. "Oh, for heaven's sake," I said and threw on a t-shirt, no foundation garment, went down and answered the door with my arms folded.
Not the point of the story.

It was my neighbor from in back, from the one house of the three behind me which is currently occupied. He identified himself, but I knew him anyway--they have lived there 15 years. He said he wanted to know who did my roof. He likes its looks and was most impressed by the speed with which they did the job.

I invited him in, told him I was very happy with the roof and the roofers, offered to give him the names of all five companies who had given me bids, and tried to help him feel okay about coming over so late.
Not the point of the story.

He was quite impressed that I had five bids and wanted to know why I chose the one I did. I explained--I won't here because it is not the point of the story.

He wanted only the name and number of the one I chose, so I provided that for him, and then we talked about his family, his two boys and what they're doing this summer. I showed him the wall of my family pictures, then led him outside to show him some of the extras my roofer did. As we stepped outside, we discovered a lovely little snake on my front door threshold.
Getting close to the point.

My neighbor then went home.

I have heard that you shouldn't kill these little grass snakes because they eat living things you don't want around your house. But this snake is hardly big enough to eat a baby mouse, let alone a squirrel or RACCOON. And snakes give me the creeps, especially on my threshold.

My friend MM has told me twice he'd come over with his .22--equipped with a silencer--and shoot the raccoon. I have declined his offer, even though he has now told me that he shoots squirrels daily. Maybe two or three a day, has probably killed more than 200. Should I believe that? Yes. I know MM.

I have squirrels, too, you know.

But I do not have, as he has because he built it, a cinder block wall behind much foliage to collect the bullets that miss the squirrels. And I do not want him to miss the RACCOON, if he happened to be here with his gun when that pesky animal might show up, and hit my neighbor's house or, worse, my neighbor's child.

I am thinking about the snake, though. If he shot it he would be aiming at the ground.

The point? I live in the city.

We don't know enough. Ever.

Theresa Heinz Kerry in the news, wife of our new Secretary of State. Taken by ambulance to a hospital, then transferred to Massachusetts General in critical condition. She's 74. 

They do not say what is wrong, only that she is critical but stable. That's what they said about Nelson Mandela a few weeks ago, who is now dying. Life a precious and fragile thing, apt to end at any moment, we keep being reminded. Can we, should we live every day with that thought in mind? Perhaps.

If we did, what would we do differently? Be kinder? Look for reasons to be glad?

I'm just asking.

"Over"heard

Asian couple, handsome each, in Walmart yesterday. I would say they are Japanese. Whatever. He's a bit impatient, asks the time. "Nearly three," she says. Then she says, "We can go soon." 

He, "Bonanza's over." (It's over at three.) And I realize ME TV, with its old show reruns--some of them pretty darn good, though Bonanza isn't one I watch, being on in the daytime as it is--has a varied audience. Why did I not expect him to be a Bonanza watcher?

*     *     *

And now my question:

The word "over" seems to have little to do with starts and finishes. When and how did it come to be that we say "it's over" to mean something has ended?  

And then there's "I'm over you."

Humbled

Here's how.    

Marilyn is now a friend of mine. We first met about five years ago, and the first thing I noticed about her was her last name: G. Hmm. So I asked her husband's first name: L. Hmmm. Where is he from? I knew the answer: Lehi. 

I dated a L G from Lehi when I was at BYU. He was a tall, good-looking guy, and he took me home to meet his parents. I liked him, but I didn't like him. You know. But I remembered that he liked me. I mean, I thought that's what it means if you take a girl home to meet your parents . . . .  

Anyway, I had a boyfriend. L, to me, was just a guy I could go somewhere with while my boyfriend was a missionary in South America for 2 1/2 years. But if a guy takes you home to meet his parents and you don't really like him, then you need to tell him you can't go out with him anymore.

So that's the back story. Here's the front.

So when I met L about five years ago I told him I remembered him. Told him we dated, I'd been to his parents' home. Etc. Guess what. He did not remember me, not even my name after I told it to him. 
Hmph. And here I always thought I was memorable. Shows to go you.

These days L is a tiny bit stooped. He's not doing as well as we'd like. He can no longer come to work with Marilyn in the temple. I have not seen L in two years, in fact, and have stopped asking Marilyn how her husband is doing. Marilyn is good but a little more serious than before. 

First Job

My grandson Davis is 15. He is one of my Texas grandsons, a tall good-looking blond boy. Polite, responsible. Am I going on about him too much?

Sorry.

Davis has a job that many would envy. He's a life guard. He will work 29 hours a week, keeping guard over the kids who swim and play in the pools he watches. Duh. You knew that part.

I'm happy for him, proud of him. Just letting you know.