The current contender as father-of-my-grandchild(ren)is an Eagle Scout, thus he is always prepared. Never mind that he couldn't find it if he needed it, it's there in a box somewhere, probably labeled "kitchen stuff." The poor guy has moved from pillar to post in the past few years seeking a home for his grown up self. Except he wasn't quite there yet, thus the baggage. The last move was into my ancient basement, willy nilly and here and there amongst the dust and dirt that coat the place. And there it has set for six months. I've burned empty boxes and sorted through his past carefully, moving it all into a sacred space for him to deal with when the time comes.

Meanwhile, I'm all about some cleanup and a place for Poopie to play with power tools and paint brushes. I have a piece of Gaga's furniture to restore and bring up to the main floor, and some Christmas presents to create from the past that is mine and the family's. We are older now, and have frequent conversations about the past in the context of the future. Mama tells me what she's carved whose initials on, carefully listening to what is important to each of us. I know where the papers are, and what they want. We laughed the other day chattin' about the yard sale for the band where Aunt Granny put out for sale every piece of ceramic genius that Gaga ever gave her, and the matriarch showed up to buy 'em all back. She was a genius whiz if I ever saw one.