I lifted two suitcases from the hall closet, set them on my bed, and began packing to fly to Steamboat, for what may well be the last time. As I did this, I can’t help but think back to other years and trips we had made to Colorado.
I am still walking my old lady, June Cleaver, but don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to take these steps with me. Her age and the cold are getting through to her. Her face, neck and jaws are swollen from swollen salivary glands.
It’s early Thanksgiving morning and once again family is coming to my house. We’ll have our usual eclectic mix of the good, the bad, and the unknown. I am expecting somewhere in the neighborhood of 35 to 40 family members.
Seventy years ago this fall was probably one of the happiest times of my life, but I didn’t realize it until one special day came along. And on that morning, as a seventh-grader at Bailey Junior High School, I thought my life had been ruined forever.
Recently I went to La Soirre Luncheon Club with my longtime friend, Ann Hand Dunbar. To say the least, it did not turn out to be a prime time social occasion. I had carried us to the wrong luncheon club on the wrong day.