Gracie and I are on the deck despite the tenants from hell. Right now one of them is singing, I think, and his voice is loud enough and bad enough to scare away small animals and children. Their younger kids are riding bikes down the middle of the street. I’m sorry I missed small children hunting season.

The day is perfect with sun and a breeze and no humidity. It is the first day this week I have nothing on my dance card. I’ll fill the bird feeders and Gracie and I will go to the dump later. I have two new books, and I have yet to start either of them as I have been so busy. I’m thinking I won’t get dressed, even to go to the dump. I’ll shower and brush my teeth and I’ll wear clean underwear just as my mother always demanded.

I don’t remember when a stain on my shirt or dirt on my pants became a catastrophe. It was probably around the same time boys became far more than just a nuisance. That does present a problem as I am prone to food falling off my fork to my shirt. My sisters are also prone to food falling off their forks. It is genetic. One Christmas, my mother gave my sister, as a joke, an adult bib in her stocking. I carry a Tide pen and have one in the car and in the den where I spend most of my time. They get lots of use. One or even two will travel to Africa with me.

I think that stains and dirt come full circle. Your life reaches a point when stains don’t matter. A 90 year old friend of mine always wears a shirt with at least one stain. I don’t care and I doubt anyone else does. I believe other people’s expectations of you change the older you get. Faulty memory, of course; falling asleep in the middle of a conversation, why not? Stains on your shirts; at least you got dressed.

I’m not there yet; in fact, I think I’m a long way from there. I still have an obsessive need to hold on to my Tide pen, sort of like a toddler and her binky.