The day is overcast and a bit chilly. The sun was here earlier, but it disappeared while I was at breakfast. Last night was cold. We sat on the deck for movie night clad in sweatshirts and wrapped in afghans. Even Gracie had her afghan though hers was more for comfort than warmth. Dinner was pasta and garlic bread, perfect for a cold night on the deck.

The hummingbird comes every late afternoon around the same time. Yesterday I watched as that lovely bird drank from the nectar feeder hanging from a flower pot. The nectar bubbled as he drank. The bird then alighted on a branch, and I got to watch. Most times a hummingbird is a whirl of wings, but I got to see the dainty bird with his long bill just sit for a bit. I dared not move lest I scare him, but Gracie ran up the deck stairs and the glass lanterns shook and scared away my bird. Today I’ll remember to bring out my camera in hopes of getting a few pictures.

I always used to wonder how old people felt. I’d see them walking uptown to the First National pulling their carts behind them. Old back then was, of course, relative. I was young and even a teenager seemed worldly. My grandmother was forty nine when I was born. All my life I never thought of her as anything but old. She walked with a stoop. I always figured it started because she was taller than my grandfather and then she just stayed that way. Her clothes were sensible, and she smelled like lilacs. Her house was perfectly neat and free of dust. A bowl of candy was always on the table. We’d take only one or two but always wished we were brave enough to take more. She liked fruit jellies. Her hair was gray. She went to the beauty parlor every couple of weeks. It was her only extravagance. Her laugh was loud and sometimes embarrassing. I always figured she was so old she didn’t notice much anymore.

Old is again relative. All those old people I saw and wondered about knew they weren’t old at all.