Perhaps this is the week in which I let others speak for me? I'd fully intended to write a full-blown entry today, but my findings a few minutes ago mean that I think I'm going to let someone else's words speak for me again today.

The letter is dated May 10, 2001. I have been looking for it since June, and it reappeared about twenty minutes ago while I was cleaning out under my desk. It is in my grandmother's handwriting, and it details her apple butter recipe:

I use a crock pot to cook the apples in—that way it is not necessary to stand and stir a lot. Then, too, the apples to do not stick to the cookware as bad as when using an open pot.

"Slice apples into the crockpot—fill it full—put about 3 or 4 cups of sugar on top and let it set overnight. Add spices—cinnamon, allspice & a little nutmeg—about 1 tsp. each or whatever suits your taste—cook 3 or 4 hours.*

All is quiet here in west Alabama. I am tucked away, typing merrily, in the back bedroom of the house, still not quite dressed for the day. I doubt seriously that anyone else even knows that I'm up yet, which is fine by me. I like having a bit of time in the morning between wakefulness and conversation that allows me time to gather my thoughts, settle the last remaining embers of dreams into the dustbin of the day, and ease into the day as I'm ready.

In retrospect, a hiatus was exactly what I needed. I wasn't happy with anything I had to say; none of it felt meaningful or thought-provoking. So I decided to take a break, throw myself into something else for about a week, and I knew I'd come back full of ideas and ready to tackle the world—in a literary sense, of course.

I am part of the chain.

Jeff, on the answering machine this morning: "Amy, turn on the television now."
Ten minutes later, to Kat: "Kat, turn on your television now. What channel? Any channel."
To Brad: "What are they saying up there? Please, tell me something I don't know already."
To Andrew: "Hold on, hold on….my God. It's gone."
To Heather: "Is Andy okay? Have you heard?"

"Are you going out today? If you are, then don't forget to take your umbershoot."

If my mother said this to you, you would probably look at her with a great degree of puzzlement. If my mother said this to me, I would know that we were supposed to get rain that day.My mother can be dour and serious. She was the eldest of four children, and her unasked-for position of seniority required her to be the caretaker of her siblings while her parents ran a small store.

As a result of that caretaking, I can vouch for her excellence at it.

She graduated from high school in 1961, when in Arkansas, the propriety of the 1950s hadn't quite been overtaken by the gaiety and looseness of the 1960s. She was unmarried, and through casual comments she made, I gather that her family despaired that she would ever marry.

We have Caller ID, and it has been one of the best services we've ever purchased, despite my sometimes missing the element of surprise when I pick up the phone. Once, there was a time when the phone would ring, and I would answer tentatively, expecting telemarketers or wrong numbers, only to be thoroughly gratified to hear an old friend's voice on the phone.