This semester, because Josie is graduating in December, my daughter has two English classes that duplicate one another, a Senior level English and one on British Authors, so her teacher asked her if she would like to treat one of them as an independent study.

"How would that work," she asked.

"Well, do you like to read?"

"Yes..."

"How about you read some books by British authors and then, we get together and discuss them. Do you know any British authors you'd like to read?"

"How about Jane Austin?"

"I love Jane Austin, that would be great."

And, thereafter, a trip was made to the library for the gathering of such book.

When Josie came home, this is what she cried: "I'm getting a grade for READING BOOKS!" (We might have discussed a few possibilities, but I'm afraid she just isn't all that interested in British science fiction.)

That conversation with her teacher happened the first week of school, Thursday. There had been a time schedule made for the reading of books. Three weeks per book. On Tuesday, she reported to her teacher that the first book had been read and what did she want her to do at this point. The teacher looked at her with stun. "Ah, make a list of twenty-five major events of the novel." At the end, of the period, Josie handed this request in. "There were more than twenty-five events, but I thought you wouldn't mind."

There was another trip to the library and another Jane Austin novel checked out. While she was looking over the library's content on the computer terminal, her teacher stopped beside her, paused, and asked, "Are you thinking of reading that book too?"

"Yes," Josie replied. She was looking at Wuthering Heights.

Most of her classmates in the British Authors class are reading, why, I don't even have to say it. You already know whose work it is.

On the morning of Gary's fifth birthday, I began to feel uncomfortable.  "Would you mind," I asked the five year old, if I had the baby on your birthday? Would you mind sharing?"  After a moment of consideration, he said no, he didn't mind sharing.  Almost twelve hours later, I gave birth to William.  Yesterday, he celebrated his sixteenth birthday.  Because last year, with Dale in the nursing home, there was no birthday cake for the boys, I made up for it this year with cake for each and balloons.  I was often asked the question as to whether I'd really had two on the same day.  I always replied yes.  One woman at my answer said that she had two on the same day  as well.  Three years apart.  "My daughter wanted a dalmation puppy and what she got her brother."

Yesterday was Gary's birthday and he turned twenty-one.  Twenty-one!  The legal drinking age.  He spent the evening, (he works night shift on the weekends) as he often does, playing guitar at a friend's house.  This friend lives out of town (Liberty) and a few minutes ago as he was on his way home, he was pulled over by a State Trooper who took one look at his driver's license and said, "I'm going to give you a sobriety test."  And, he did, all of them, including a breathalyzer test.  "Aren't you glad I'm a good kid," he asked me and then showed me the little plastic tube the trooper told him he could keep.  Yeah, I'm glad.  

Oooh, wow, half of a century!

Have a piece of cake.

Only three things because three things are enough.

No writing this week.

The little plastic nose pieces on my glasses have disappeared.  It's not so much 'oh, my nose,' but the 'darn, the head tilt.'

I realized yesterday, as I was calling the Dairy Inn to place a order, that I have more numbers for restaurants on my cell phone than I have the telephone numbers of friends.