We met for breakfast.
Three friends who grew up together.
Three friends who would not have reconnected had it not been through social media.
Three friends who lived near each other all these years and never knew.

My two friends share the same first name.
Each spells it differently.
One is Cathy with a C.
The other is Kathy with a K.

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My cell phone rang.
It did not hear The Walton’s theme song so I knew it was not my family.
I looked and saw that it was a call from the place where I get my hair cut.
They were calling to remind me of my appointment the next day.

If I’m out running errands or my phone is on silent the message goes to voicemail.
But this time, I was in the kitchen and the phone was right there.
This time I answered the call.
The voice on the other end seemed startled.

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I was excited to go to my sale.
I call it my sale because it is something I look forward to with anticipation.
Every fall and spring the sale is on my calendar.
I have been going to this sale two times a year for over twenty-five years.

The sale is sponsored by a private academic preschool and kindergarten in the area.
It is a non-profit parent cooperative that emphasizes learning through child-centered play.
The Playhouse, as it is called, was founded in 1936.
Every child’s parent is expected to volunteer in the classroom once a week.

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Being an only child, I developed a great imagination.
The place where my imagination flourished was in my basement.
The basement was my refuge.
With paneled walls that were all the rage in the 60’s, I had my own private place.

I often played school down my basement and pretended that I was the teacher.
I had a desk that faced my student’s chairs.
In reality, the chairs were empty.
In my mind they were filled with eager students waiting for the day’s lessons.

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We were talking about my daughter’s space.
Not a personal space that each of us has around us.
Rather an actual space.
A space that gave her a bit of freedom in a houseful of siblings.

My oldest daughter was the one who brought it up.
My younger son remembered and added forgotten details.
We all laughed, remembering things we hadn’t thought about in quite a while.
I thought my solution at the time was nothing short of brilliant.

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My son began work in a law firm.
After twelve years of school, four years of college, and three years of law school, he began.
Only a year ago, he passed the bar exam.
For the following year he clerked in federal court.

It has been a long journey to get to this God-ordained place.
It has meant a lot of hard work.
I sent him a text on his first morning at the firm.
So did my husband.

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Over five years ago, my youngest son graduated from high school.
It is the custom in our family to have a party for a high school graduation.
The guest list for the high school graduation is primarily the graduate’s choice.
This was their celebration.

I usually encouraged my children to think outside the box a bit.
I suggested that besides friends, they invite those people who impacted them.
I expanded that to include those people that they may have impacted.
The guest list was a wonderful mix of people.

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I remember the day like it was yesterday.
My children were all young.
It was going to be a day to take them shoe shopping.
Five children all needed sneakers.

That morning a neighbor called to ask me if I could watch her son.
She really needed the help so of course I said, yes.
What is one more child when you already have five?
I was sure that the day’s excursions were not going to be thrilling to this little boy.

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I have a small hand mirror that I use when I put on my mascara.
My routine is done on autopilot.
As I listen to news radio, I get ready for the day.
Most mornings are exactly the same.

However, I changed it up a bit.
I did the absurd.
I tried to put on my mascara using my cell phone.
Distracted in my own thoughts, I mistakenly thought my cell phone was my mirror.

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It has already been established that I tend to burn my arm when I bake.
It is now known that my oven mitts are too short for my long arms.
They never seem to cover the place where the top rack of the oven meets my forearm.
The problem was sweetly handled when a deacon and his wife gave me a gift.

Shortly after reading about my continuous problem, he went on the computer.
He searched until he found what he was looking for.
That Sunday at church a few people told me that there was a present for me.
Since the service had already begun, I needed to wait until the end to retrieve my gift.

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