Barbara J. Hamby

Friday Night Fog

With no grandchildren of my own, I’m enjoying Al’s youngest granddaughter, age three, who is visiting us with her daddy, Al’s oldest son. She has been demonstrating her skill at putting together 100 piece jigsaw puzzles and drawing portraits of us. I like mine; they’re tall and skinny, so I put them on the refrigerator.

Our weekend dinner plans have been postponed to Sunday afternoon, since my son double-booked himself. He is scheduled to be playing drums on a boat in Astoria on Saturday afternoon. It’s too bad we couldn’t all go up there and take dinner with us, but the logistics of that are mind-boggling.

I’m reading Margaret Truman’s biography of her mother, Bess, and contemplating how difficult that must have been to write. It would be hard enough to tell about any parent, but such a famous one, about whom so much has been written, had to be a real challenge.

We’ve been rearranging books and have added a tall bookcase in the living room. In the process, I’ve turned up a number of books I want to read, but haven’t.

Before I do much more reading, however, I need to get back to writing on my memoirs. That and my winter sorting projects: old letters and pictures. Time marches on and I fall behind.