When Andrew was 5, he was fascinated with age. I picked him and Michael up so they could spend the day with Mom, Gramma and me, and all the way to Aunt Ellen's house, Andrew asked questions about age. "How old are you, Aunt Lisa? How old is Uncle Eddie?" I told him that I was 35, and Uncle Eddie was 48. Andrew was impressed, especially when I told him I was even older than his daddy.

Later that afternoon, Mom, Andrew and Michael were all sitting on the bank of the pond, fishing. "Gramma," Andrew asked excitedly, "Did you know that Aunt Lisa's 35 years old?"

"Yes, honey," Mom answered solemnly. "I was there when she was born."

"You were?" Andrew asked in disbelief. "Gramma, how old are you?"

Michael jumped up from the bank indignantly. "Andrew!" he said sharply, "Don't you know it's not nice to ask old ladies how old they are?"

"Michael, do you really think I'm old?" Mom asked teasingly.

"Well," Michael hedged, "Not real old...but you are pretty old, Gramma!"

Michael was nearly 3 when the Gulf War broke out. Pete called me the night the air war started. As we talked, he finally asked, "You seem upset. How come?"

"My country's at war," I retorted, "I'm not real happy about it."

"Well," he lectured firmly, "don't protest the war, it would be like spitting on Uncle Lennie's grave."

"Put Michael on the phone," I sighed. "I want to talk to someone who makes sense."

"Hi, Aunt Lisa!," Michael said cheerfully.

"Michael, repeat after me," I told him. "One, two, three, four..."

"One, two, three, four," he recited.

"We don't want your stupid war," I coached, wishing I could see the look on my brother's face when he heard anti-war slogans coming out of his son's mouth.

"No!" Michael protested, "Aunt Lisa, it goes one, two, three, four...five!"

The winter after Gramma and Grampa died, Michael and Andrew both played in a basketball league. During one game, Andrew seemed to catch on fire, and scored basket after basket.

After the game, he told Pete, "Dad, do you know why I played so good? I was playing for Gramma and Grampa."

"Well, son, you should tell them that," Pete said, patting him on the back. "I'm sure Grandpa Pete and Grandma Judie would be really pleased to hear that."

"Dad," Andrew explained impatiently, "I wasn't playing for that Gramma and Grampa, I was playing for the dead ones!"

After we'd stuffed ourselves with Christmas dinner this year, we called Joe and Shannon (Lyn and AJ's son and daughter-in-law) in Denver. We had them on speaker phone, and could hear Chewie playing in the background.

"Tell Chewie Oma's on the phone," Lyn told Joe.

We continued talking to Shannon while Joe went to coax Chewie to the phone. Chewie, however, was outraged that he was being taken away from his Christmas toys, and roared his displeasure. (He wasn't screaming or crying, he was roaring like an angry Wookie.)

Abbie, her eyes wide, stared at the speakerphone in amazement. "That's Chewie," Jenny told her. "He's upset."

Abbie scooted closer to the phone. "Poor Chewie," she said sympathetically. "Poor, poor Chewie!"

I had 2 wisdom teeth removed right after Christmas. I was doing better by New Years Day, but was still in a lot of pain when we spoke to Ray and Jenny.

Abbie was listening as Ray and Jenny asked how I was doing. Jennie explained to Abbie that Aunt Lisa had owies in her mouth.

"Owies? Poor Aunt Lisa!" Abbie cooed into the phone.

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