My grandmother died; I don’t want to seem callous but it’s hard to work up any emotion about it—the process has been going on for so long. The marvelous old lady with the stories and the quilts and the strange lore and notions that I knew—she was gone a long time back. Those diseases that take away the mind and leave the body alive scare me more than quicker deaths.
My one brother has been competing in various aerobatic contests the past few years; this is the first year he’s competed in the advanced category. In his first contest this year he took first place in his category. My other brother is designing the new computer his company intends to manufacture; this thing has a rather specialized function, but he is designing it so as to close off the fewest options in future development. It’s a kick for him to be tackling something like that.
I heard back from the library about the 4000 holes in Blackbourn Lancashire; the only file of the Daily Mail in the country apparently is a foreign edition and doesn’t contain the local column I need. So unless I can con this friend of a friend of a friend I sort of know in London into looking it up I may never know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall. Not that the date of the article really matters all that much, I guess, except to me.
