I sometimes allow my young grandchildren to use my smart phone for entertainment, especially if I’m busy. As young as two, they instinctively know which icons to push to transport them to a different world. (Yet, I required several hours of in-service before I could turn on a smart phone.)

My young grandchildren enjoy the different tones played as they swipe the screen or push the various icons. Pictures of their parents, aunts, uncles, and grandpa help them feel connected to their family. (Those pictures make it easier for me to connect via phone with family members.)The photo gallery reminds my grandchildren of the fun, family times we’ve experienced.

I felt the risk of harm was low if a child played with my phone. However, I recently glanced up from folding laundry and saw my two-year-old granddaughter had accessed the phone screen and was making pretend calls. What were the chances she would push numbers in a sequence which would result in a phone call?

Well…they were good because soon thereafter I received notice from my data plan provider that my current data plan did not support “calls to numbers overseas.”

I’m just glad she didn’t find Amazon’s website.


A Text Message

“I think I left two email addresses on the table,” read my son’s text. “Please look and see.”

“Sure,” I replied via text.

My son did not reply

I searched. “No addresses on the table. Will go through trash later,” I texted.

“???????” my son texted.

“Late for an appointment. Will check trash later,” I texted again. Why had he not understood my previous message?

My phone rang. “What are you talking about?” my son asked. “Do I need to know you are sorting through your trash? Why are you sorting it anyway?”

“To find your email addresses,” I said curtly.

“Email addresses?” He questioned, clearly confused.

“The ones you said you left on the table,” I answered rather exasperated.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, and I’ve got to be somewhere…soon. Try to take it easy, Mom,” my son said and hung up.

I checked my text messages again. Yes, there it was, a text dated June 12, 2017 asking me to…oh dear, I guess it is the middle of January, 2018.

I don’t plan further discussion of this with my son. I do plan to pay better attention to my text messages.


After Christmas Update

I still have a few Christmas decorations to take down, but I have gotten all the sweets out of the house. I have had my birthday, too, so I plan to devote a week or so to dieting. I make, but do not necessarily follow this plan every year.

Christmas was good. Well, I did suffer a drop in my Christmas cheer level during a game of charades with my grandchildren. Someone verbalized the clue “wrinkles” and everyone in the entire room shouted “Nana” in unison. It seems the number of birthdays I have had is connected to the number of wrinkles I have.

My New Year’s weekend was good, too. John and I traveled out-of-state for four days. We traveled by train, so the cold didn’t bother us. It didn’t bother our out-door cat either who inadvertently spent the super-cold weekend in our warm, cozy house.  (We have added “check location of cats” to our todo before leaving home list.)

Finally, I’m excited to report some success in discarding old, tattered Christmas decorations. (See above picture.) Hmmm, that is a neat box.  I better keep it. I’m sure I can use it next year…perhaps with a little greenery….


Does anyone have a tissue?

I always think I won’t do it again, but before I know it, I’ve done it again. Oh, I try, and have had some success. I’ve gone three or four weeks without washing and/or drying a Kleenex tissue. Seldom, though, do I notice the wet streaks of tissue clinging to an article of dark clothing before I blindly toss it into the dryer. I liken the falling bits of dried Kleenex to a gentle snow fall as I shake the dried article of clothing.

I’m not a novice at doing laundry. In fact, I have a vague memory of helping Grandma rub Grandpa’s overalls over a galvanized washboard in a tub of water in the back yard.

“Be careful, watch out for your hair and fingers,” my mother cautioned as I ran towels and dishcloths through the wringer of her Maytag washer.

I’ve now been on my own with laundry for over fifty years. That laundry included cloth diapers for babies, work clothes for summer construction jobs, butter-stained white shirts from the local movie theatre, and jeans and more jeans.

“Don’t I check pockets?” you ask. Well, yes, I might answer, but the evidence speaks otherwise.

“Now, where is that lint brush?”