Mrs. Daffodil and I have had a busy day. We shopped for a girdle, celebrated Thanksgiving without electricity, helped birth a litter of Cocker puppies, been interviewed by a journalist, and seen her daughter, Anne, married.
We ate plates full of roast beef, chicken, green beans, baked beans, potatoes, and drank many cups of coffee. Mrs. Daffodil likes coffee.
We started to straighten the desk but didn't get past looking through the photo album full of memories. We got locked in the old station wagon and had to be rescued by Kay, the woman who shares the 400-year old farmhouse with Mrs. D. We attended the church meeting to discuss remodeling which in 1950s New England means adding bathrooms and a gas stove.
We chatted with the postman, Henry, who doesn't call anyone by his or her first name for fear of appearing to be playing favorites. We stayed with Mrs. Wilson the night she became a widow when her husband was killed in an automobile accident.
We met Mrs. Daffodil's first love. We both wept.
Mrs. Daffodil (aka author Gladys Taber) is certainly someone you would want to know. She is a bit absent-minded about where she has put one thing or another, would rather be in corduroys and a shirt than in a dress and heels, and welcomes all - family, friends, and strangers - to her farm, Driftway. A driftway, she explained, is the narrow path up the pasture where the cows come home.
I can barely wait to see what adventures tomorrow will bring.
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