FUNERALS, SANDWICHES AND OLD AND MOLDY

Today we went to a funeral of a nice man in our ward. He raised nine children. All his children spoke. His last said something like, "I am glad my dad had faith during trying times, because here I am, number nine." Other people would have stopped at three or five or surely eight. She is a girl any father or mother would love to have. She was the treasure at the end. I think we all have treasures at the end, but some of us decide when the end is and not let God do it.

~~~~~

Because I was so tired from being on my feet for so long today I made grilled ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner. One I made with mayo--Phil's. One with Miracle Whip--mine. But I forgot which was which.

"You'll have to taste each of these," I told Phil. "And then tell me which one is mine."

He sniffed them.

"You can't tell that way, just have a bite of each."

"This is yours," he said, handing me the sandwich at his plate.

I looked at it. It didn't have a bite out of it. I furrowed my brow.

"Aum," he said, with a sheepish grin, "I licked your bread."

~~~~~

And now, because I actually feel Old and Moldy I am going to sit in the old-folks-recliner with the new afghan my friend Judy gave me and have a snooze so I can read blogs way into the night and avoid writing my book.

But, DeAnn, you better be WRITING YOURS! And I hear Her Excellency of Mousehole is doing some writing, too. Yes!