Prologue - Bill's New Book

Discovering Michigan: the first hundred years

 

 

Prologue – 1628

Samuel de Champlain at his habitant in Quebec

 

 

Samuel leaned his head back against the cushioned chair that he had brought to the New World all the way from his home in Paris. The chair was a foiled attempt to convince his young wife that the home he created in Quebec could be made as comfortable as their home in Paris. Since she was now living in Paris, it obviously didn’t work, he reminded himself.

Samuel was tired. He had spent the day arguing with, first, a delegation of Indians who wanted gifts of food to ‘make their squaws more comfortable,’ and second, the two traders who had come to him demanding a license to trade with the Iroquois. He had been sympathetic to the Indians, but not the traders. He probably should have given the traders the license they sought – the Iroquois would have killed them and stolen their goods before the season was over, thus ending that problem. The situation with the Indians was more complicated; the tiny settlement of Quebec had no excess food to give the Indians, but he couldn’t expose the weakened condition of his colony for fear of an Indian attack. It was an impossible situation.

He grimaced as his head fell back on the cushion; he had nearly fallen asleep. “Merde,” he whispered to himself, being careful in case someone was listening. He decided to take a short walk to rouse his tired body. He liked walking around the promenade that nearly circled the second story of the building that served as his home, office and central government building for New France. Many of the boards had come from France, but there weren’t enough; some boards had to be sawn from logs by Quebec settlers doing the terribly hard job of standing in a pit pulling the saw down while another pulled upwards from above. It was the kind of work that was a sample of the hard life a Quebec settler faced.

Samuel ambled around the walk carefully studying the rosebushes in the garden below. He had planted the bushes himself when the home was first built. Buoyed by the walk and the sight of his flowers, Samuel decided to return to his rooms to work on the plan that he had begun. It was an important task; he was planning his next trip home to Paris and he needed to meet with the King and the investors in the fur trade business. Meeting with the King was the most difficult since Samuel was not a member of French nobility and the King rarely saw anyone beyond his closest advisors who were all members of the French aristocracy. Yet it was important that Samuel report to the King to assure his continued support of New France. He had given the King previous reports concerning exploration of New France, especially the upstream lands to the west. Those reports seemed to interest the King, probably because he dreamed of a vast new territory for France. Samuel had reported to the King privately first and then published similar reports. The publications provided a source of income for Samuel that was important to his well-being since the King never found a reason to elevate Samuel to the ranks of the nobility and its corresponding financial rewards.

Samuel searched the pile of papers on his worktable. “Where is Brule’s last report?” he called aloud to his French servant, now listed as his housekeeper, but in fact served as his personal assistant. Not hearing any response, Samuel attacked the pile once again. There, he found it. It was notes taken from his last meeting with Brule, the young French lad he had commissioned to explore the western reaches of the St. Lawrence River. He studied the notes for several minutes, then threw the paper back to the table.

“There is nothing here I can use, nothing I haven’t already reported,” Samuel said aloud to the empty room. He stood up and paced the floor, searching for an idea. He paced a long time that night and then went to bed. Samuel slept fitfully, going over the results from previous treks to the west, his own and those of his emissaries.

He remembered his first emissary: he had sent the young lad Etienne Brule to live with a nearby group of Indians. After Brule began providing valuable reports, he did the same with another young Frenchman, Jean Nicolet. Furthermore, at the direction of the King himself, Champlain sent another young Frenchman, Nicolas Marsolet, to live with and learn the language and customs of the Montagnais Indians near the port village of Tadoussac. Champlain remembered Marsolet with distaste. He could never get along with him, perhaps because Marsolet was somehow able to communicate with the King himself, as Champlain had learned.

Samuel smiled as he thought about Etienne Brule -- the impetuous, passionate outdoorsman who had become more Indian than French: He who could command Indians to do his bidding, he who was as fond of Indian women as he was of any Frenchwoman.

Brule’s sexual liaisons with Indian maidens was something that Champlain understood and accepted even though it was anathema to him. Samuel had been faithful to his wife and had remained so even during their lengthy absences and despite the Indian custom of offering young women to Frenchmen. Samuel finally slipped off to sleep remembering Brule as an 18 year-old at Quebec, a naïve young man, illiterate, completely devoid of any knowledge pertaining to the natives, yet volunteering to live among ‘les sauvages.’ He had always liked the young man, and his reports had been especially helpful.

The following day brought no relief from the burdens of his office for Samuel. Managing the fur trade was the most important of Samuel’s duties. He was reminded of that at each trip to France when he had to face the investors who profited handsomely by the fur he sent to various ports in France. The problems Samuel faced daily were twofold: serving the needs of French colonists, those settlers who had immigrated to New France at the urging of the King, and preventing the coureurs de bois, those illegal fur traders, from wresting all the profits of the trade away from Samuel’s investors. It was a burdensome undertaking. Only Samuel’s love for the country, the wild rivers and dark forests of New France, kept him at his post.

Unknown to Samuel, his job was about to become worse, much worse. Samuel had the first hint of his new problem from an Indian. The man was paddling up the St. Lawrence River furiously, he beached his canoe and hurried to the home to report seeing strange ships on the river. He was unable to report anything further; only that the ships were strange, unlike anything he had seen which would have been only French merchant vessels. The mystery was solved two days later when a small boat appeared at Quebec and a message was sent from the Captain of the boat to, “Monsieur de Champlain, Commandant a’ Quebec.” The message was a suggestion that the French outpost ought to surrender, that the English General Kirke had 18 armed ships, had blockaded the St. Lawrence so that Quebec was completely cut off, and a second time, that Quebec had better surrender. The note was signed, “Your affectionate servant, David Kirke.”

Champlain decided to try bluffing. He replied to the surrender document that his outpost was in no need of succor, that he had plenty of gunpowder, that it was his duty to God and country to fight to the death. The ruse worked. The ship pushed off his dock and turned downriver to Tadoussac. Most of the things Samuel said in his reply were untrue. In fact, the settlement was nearly out of food and there was only a piddling amount of gunpowder.  The biggest surprise to Champlain was learning that France and England had declared war on each other.

A long, harsh winter followed. Samuel used all his talents to manage the supply of food and distribute it equitably. Hunters were sent out daily to kill game, but the hunters were so hungry they often consumed most of their kill on the spot before returning to the settlement. The precarious position of the settlement was further endangered in July when another English vessel appeared at the harbor in front of the home demanding surrender. Champlain and his advisers, the clerics stationed at Quebec, all agreed they had no choice but to capitulate to the English Captain who had posted a white flag atop his vessel. Champlain also flew a white flag, replacing the fleur-de-lis. Samuel walked to the promenade and watched the English ship carefully as men left the ship and climbed on his dock. He nearly fell to his knees as he saw something he had never expected to see in his lifetime. There, on the dock in front of him, among several men who left the English ship was one who was pointing out the home and the adjoining buildings to the English ship’s Captain. That man was Etienne Brule.

The IRS and me

I hope you noticed that we just passed tax day (April 18) and you are OK with that. I’m not accusing you of forgetting to pay your taxes, but hey, sh&! happens. I am OK too, although I must tell you that this year my tax activities were more interesting than most.

It began with the new tax software I used. It was called tax free something or other, and it claimed to provide all the forms, instructions, assistance, and ever thing a fellar like me would need to do my 2015 taxes. And the best part was, it was all free. Or so said the ad. In fact, it was free, until I came to the very end when the software said they needed $15.95 to send my return to the State of Michigan. So I did. I didn’t mind the fee too much, but I didn’t like being taken for a fool about the “its all free” business.

Anyway, the software worked pretty well, and I was glad to get the whole business finished. Since the program said I owed the IRS $248, I decided to make my payment the easy way by letting the IRS take the money right from my bank account. It was a simple matter of doing what the program said to do with my bank account number, a routing number, and an authorization. Slick. Within a day or two after I finished and clicked ‘send’, I got an e-mail from the software company saying that the IRS had accepted my tax return.

“What an effective process for paying my tax,” I thought.

How naïve I was to think that anything with the government would be that simple. The first hint of trouble came three weeks later. It was a letter from the IRS, a form letter with boxes in it that some IRS agent had marked with blue ink. The marked boxes indicated there was trouble - the IRS said, in their form of gobbledegook, that they had some problem with my bank and they couldn’t get the money they were owed. I had better fix it right away, the next marked box said, “to avoid further interest charges or penalties.”

Further charges? Did they mean they had already assessed a penalty? I began to sweat as I read the letter. It went on to indicate that I could send them a personal check to meet my obligations. I decided to send a check post haste. Which I did. It didn’t work either.

Two weeks after mailing my personal check to the IRS for the $248, I got another letter from the IRS. It was another form letter with more boxes checked and additional obscure information. The gist of it seemed to be that they had cashed the check, but had later given a credit to the bank. It seemed like they didn’t want my money. So I went to the bank.

“Yes,” they said, the check had cleared, no the IRS didn’t send any money back. The teller smiled as she reported all this. I wondered if she had dealt with the IRS before.

Something smelled fishy to me. The only solution was to speak with an IRS person to get to the bottom of this problem of them not accepting my money. The second letter from the IRS had a telephone number for questions. I dialed.

“Thank you for calling the IRS. We are experiencing a high call volume so there will be a waiting period, but your call is important to us... yada, yada, yada.”

I listened carefully. The recorded voice went on to ask questions that I was to answer via the telephone keyboard. I pushed a couple of number buttons and the voice seemed to like my choice. It stopped asking questions and announced what seemed to be a verdict.

“We estimate your waiting time before an analyst is available is 30 minutes,” the voice announced without any hint of regret.

I waited and then waited some more. They were surprisingly accurate--almost to the minute the recorded music stopped and I heard a new sound. I was connected!

But only for a moment. Then the line went dead. It was as if someone picked up the phone and then ended the connection. After my 1/2 hour wait, my breath escaped like a balloon losing air. I may have said sh&!, I don’t know. I decided to redial. I went through the yada business and the questions that I now could answer more quickly and began the second wait period of another 30 minutes. This time I drank beer while I waited - just to settle my nerves, you understand. Finally, a pleasant voice answered and asked about my problem. I explained about the IRS letters and threat of penalties and she began to say that wasn’t her area of expertise and that I must have not answered the questions properly.

I admit I interrupted her. I explained that I wanted to pay, but I needed the IRS to accept my money and could she help? It must have been the urgency in my voice, she said she could transfer me to another agent who handled these types of questions.

I waited while the telephone began making noises indicating that something was happening. What happened next was the worst thing I could have imagined. It was another recorded voice.

“Thank you for calling the IRS. We are experiencing a high call volume so there will be a waiting period, but your call is important to us... yada, yada, yada.”

It was another 30 minute wait. I may have said sh&! again. As I could have predicted, the third time took just as long as the first two. After the third 30 minutes, a kindly woman’s voice answered. I patiently explained my problem to her. She sounded sympathetic.

“Let me see what the system says.” After a pause she continued. “Ah, here you are. It says you are paid in full.”

My voice must have been weak from the last 2 hours of waiting on the phone. “Paid in full?” I said.

“Yup, paid in full.”

“No penalties?” I said.

“Nope, paid in full.”

 

I didn’t know whether to be happy or angry. After I thanked the IRS lady and hung up the phone, I decided to be happy. After all, my taxes were finished for the year and the experience was just one more brick on the wall.

 

  

Microsoft, HP and Me

You probably don’t know me as a computer geek. That’s because I’m not. Oh sure, I can write a blog or two and I have a few books to my credit, all prepared by me on my laptop. And I do the usual e-mails, surf the web, prepare my taxes, play bridge, (by the way, the machine happens to be female) and keep files on her where I can find them. Make that, occasionally find them.

The secret to my success is that I ‘ve been doing these things on the same laptop for several years. I had something of a love -hate relationship with her since we spent so much time together. It was a surprise when she recently fell out of love with me. The reason for our split-up was that her battery gave out. It began slowly enough when she stopped providing service for more than a few minutes, before she sent me a note asking for power. I ignored her message for several weeks, make that a few months, before she finally became adamant and sent Hewlett Packard after me. It was a wake-up call when HP sent a message saying I should contact them because the battery was worn out.

I thought it was no big deal. I’d go down to the hardware store, lay out a couple bucks for a battery and bingo, we’d be back in love. Little did I know. I soon learned that HP cleverly used a battery in my computer that is not available from anyone else, and the price for a new one from them, is roughly equivalent to the price for a used car. Now I know why I never liked that Fiorina lady during the Republican debates.

I should also tell you that for the past year or more, my trusty computer had been sending me messages about Windows 10. The messages were from Microsoft and they said the world would probably end if I didn’t soon change from my old Windows 7 to Windows 10. Besides, they said, it was FREE.

Armed with these facts, I decided to go shopping at my favorite discount store where I purchased a new laptop that I hoped would be similar to my old one. I can’t tell you much about it except to say it is a humdinger, loaded with good stuff, according to HP. AND IT HAS WINDOWS 10, the sticker almost shouted at me. And, I almost forgot, a touch screen.

I have had the machine for a few weeks and now I understand why Microsoft has been pushing Windows 10 so vigorously. It’s because they think they can sell you MORE STUFF. Windows 10 was developed by 13 year-olds who don’t like older people. They put all this neat, new stuff on it that is for sale. Each thing looks enticing, each thing requires a monthly subscription to join, or buy. The free stuff that I used routinely on my old machine is now hidden, often somewhere behind all the for sale stuff. I tried to find things by using the touch screen and that was a mistake-- the computer acted like I had touched her inappropriately, changing the entire desktop. I swear I haven’t touched her screen since she slapped me.

Nothing on the new machine seems to work the same as the old machine. Each task requires a leaning session followed by a period of trial and error. To add further insult, I quickly learned that the new machine was loaded with a temporary Windows Office package and wouldn’t I like to subscribe to the new Windows Office before my free trial version expires in 30 days? I can’t even write a blog with the new machine? Oh, how I pined for my old girl, she with the failing battery. Even now, I can see her sitting unattended in my basement office, probably waiting for me to turn her on and caress her keys with the faded letters.

But, here I am, writing my first blog on the machine with Windows 10 idling in the background, probably lying in wait to foul things up because I haven’t purchased anything since the new Windows Office that I sprung for at three times the cost of the old one. I have little expectation that you will ever see this because I probably will be unable to save it, find it, post it, and share it. I hope you have a nice day. I’ll be here wrestling with my new laptop.

Icy Road

Whizzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz.

Those are the sounds of spinning car tires on the road in front of our house. I don’t hear it too often because there are few people foolish enough to travel down our ice-covered road, and those half dozen who do, generally amble along at the extraordinary speed of five or six miles per hour. Here is a picture of the road this morning. It was more slippery than usual because of the thin layer of water on top of the ice, courtesy of the warming temperatures.

 

I saw the condition of the road first-hand during my morning walk. I thought my daily hike would be safe since the County Road Commission had sent a truck down the road the evening before, spraying a path of sand on the road surface. Apparently, we have a shortage of sand despite our nickname of “Land of Sand.” The Road Commission truck driver had distributed a thin layer of sand down the center of the road only in quantities too small to be effective. It was treacherous footing even with the added precaution I had taken of installing the wires on my boots before setting out. I was unaware of the ‘ol water-on-ice’ trick that Mother Nature had played on me overnight. I tried walking along the side of the road but the snow was too deep, leaving only the ice as my pathway to the free coffee. When I finally arrived, the coffee tasted that much better.

On my way home, I couldn’t quit thinking about my perfectly serviceable Yak Trax™ that I should have installed on my boots – those fail safe boot add-ons with the carbide spikes that bite into the ice preventing any slips. They were hanging in the same place where I keep my winter boots. I guess it is further reason that no one has accused me of remembering everything. Better make that most things.

Not that icy-roads are a surprise. We are blessed with them each spring as the weather warms and the snowpack on the roads turns to ice. Last year was something of a record; we had nearly six inches of ice in front of our house that lasted weeks as the winter slowly faded, seemingly unwilling to give up its icy grip. Since our weather is warming early this year, perhaps the ice won’t last long and we can get back to zooming down the road in our vehicles with abandon and I can resume shaking my fist at those who zoom while I am walking. It’s a little game I play to amuse myself.

Here is some more evidence of the gradual but early snow melt around our lawn.

Note that one of our neighborhood bunnies used one of my flowers as winter fodder. The bunnies routinely hop around our lawn using my plowed sidewalks and driveway instead of hopping in the snow like they are supposed to do. I keep expecting them to knock on my door and complain if I fail to shovel the snow.

And finally, here is my new fur hat that I wore for my morning walk.

 It is a single coyote pelt, fashioned so that its rear keeps my neck warm and his face is looking out for me in front. In case you don’t understand, I should tell you it’s a North Woods thing that the coffee drinkers all admired. Wearing it made the walk on the ice a little easier. Stay warm, Bill. 

A Winter Glove Day

For those of us in the North Woods, winter gloves are an important accoutrement to our normal winter garb. And since winter usually lasts much of the year, such things as ‘favorite gloves’ are not to be taken lightly. As you will see from the following, today was an important day for us who are devoted to our winter gloves.

Although today was like any other day, it was auspicious in that I was first to arrive at the morning coffee klatch, so I chose the prime location to deposit my coat, hat, and winter gloves – right in front of the stove. The host, Jer,(as in Jerry, not jerk), always has his winter gloves laid out on the wooden bench in front of his stove. I managed to snuggle my hat with my gloves tucked inside, on the tiny place remaining on the bench, so that I would have warm gloves for my walk home. As the other men came in one-by-one to guzzle their free java and work on Jer’s puzzle, they each followed the routine of randomly tossing their winter duds on Jer’s sofa and armchair several feet distant from the stove. I sort of chuckled quietly as I savored the thought of my warm gloves.

The last to arrive this morning was Jimbo. My chair was facing the door so I watched as Jimbo entered and made straight for the sofa ignoring the bench full of gloves. He bent over the pile of assorted clothing and seemed to be sorting through the hats and gloves as if he were searching for something. I turned to my coffee but nearly choked on my steaming brew when Jimbo suddenly shouted.

“AHH-HA, there it is!” With that and a sort of, I got ya, grin, Jimbo came to the coffee table holding a black leather glove. “So who thinks they own this glove?” he asked the table of freeloaders as we each savored our free coffee.

The Professor spoke up first. “That’s my glove” This was followed by a lengthy pause “at least I think it is,” he concluded.

“You stole my glove.” Jimbo said with finality.

Never one to back down, the Professor said, “If that is your glove, we must have the same color, style and fit because that glove is just like the other one I own.” The Professor sat back, enjoying the moment of his superior logic.

Now Jimbo is nothing if not a precise inspector of used clothes given his regular visits to St Vincent De Paul’s emporium. He pointed to one of the fingers of the suspect glove. “Just a minute, I have proof. See, there is the repair I made on my glove where it was wearing through.”

Jimbo looked around the table for a challenge to his retort. It was quiet for only a moment until the Professor began a rapid series of maneuvers about how gloves are so similar and why yes, he did find that glove on Jer’s floor some days ago, but since the mate to his glove was missing, he assumed it belonged to him. The matter came to a fairly certain conclusion when the Professor finally allowed as how he had found another similar glove in his driveway some several days earlier. The clear consensus of Jer, Sherm, Big Bob, and me was that Jimbo had won. He triumphantly shoved the glove in his pocket and sat down after showing the winner’s obligatory grace, “it is amazing how these gloves look alike.”

We all went back to guzzling our coffee when I suddenly realized that the glove in question looked exactly like the winter glove I had worn this morning! I hoped mine was still safely tucked inside my hat. Sure enough, when I left some time later my black leather glove was snugly in place. I looked it over carefully just to be sure. And there, to my surprise was a worn spot and a loose seam on the thumb. My favorite glove, ruined. I debated the notion of asking Jimbo to do a repair job. Nahhh.

Later that day my bride said one of her gloves was missing. We found it on the street on our way home, wet, dirty and impressed with tire tracks where more than one car had passed over it. This second example of a missing glove and my finding that my favorite glove was blemished wasn’t a surprise to me. This seemed to be a day all about winter gloves. Oh my.

Un-decorating the Christmas Tree

How fast time passes. It seems like just yesterday we put up our Christmas tree and today we are taking it down. Actually, it was almost a month ago when we picked out our tree with care, lugged it home, and force-fit it through the doorway as needles came flying loose like a dog shaking off water after a dip in the pond. Setting the tree upright was no simple task either; this tree, like every tree we have ever cut ourselves or purchased, had a hidden curve near the bottom, impossible to make straight without the mandatory book slipped beneath the tree stand. Finally, the two of us got the tree in place, approximately straight and approximately centered in front of the doorwall. Marjorie took over after that while I watched the ballgame--- I didn’t want to deprive her of the pleasure of decorating the tree.

She began with the lights. Surprisingly, most of the strands worked and she adroitly strung what I guessed to be several hundred feet of lights around the tree. By the time the football game was at half-time, she asked me to get the giant boxes where we store Christmas ornaments. She lovingly selected each ornament from our store of several thousand do-dads before carefully attaching each to the Fraser Fir that was making the living room smell like a forest. The ornaments brought back memories: the soccer ball from the days when our boys played, the tiny brass instruments from their days in the band, the carved wooden figures that we bought in Bethlehem from the street vendor who wouldn’t leave us alone until we handed over a wad of cash. They were all wonderful, she said, as the Lions took the lead.

Just as the game wound down the tree was finished. It was a sight to behold. We celebrated the event with a toast. The Christmas tree, the outdoor lights blinking gaily, and the Lions win all seemed to offer us the promise a magical Christmas. Perhaps we felt thus since we were celebrating at our son’s house. He would be scrubbing his floors, not us.

Now the holiday is over and the tree with its falling needles is less of a magical memory and more of a reminder that houses don’t clean themselves, you know. Since Marjorie did the work in decorating, I generously offered to help her un-decorate and return our house to normal. It was something of a stressful undertaking. First of all, there were just too damn many ornaments on that fool tree. I must have spent more than an hour complaining about removing just the bulbs. The job went a little faster when she helped, but of course, I suggested which box would serve best to store each ornament.

Then came removal of the lights – the worst job ever undertaken by humans. Christmas lights never come off as easily as they go on. Something happens during the holidays that causes each strand to get stuck in place; the wires get criss-crossed or the little clips get stuck or something else occurs so that the strands are invariably tangled. It’s a mess, almost beyond the capability of husbands to neatly coil the wires and put them in their containers. It had become a two-cocktail job.

Finally finished, I slid open the doorwall and pushed the naked tree into the snow. The cold wind whipped loose needles across the living room floor. Now, the un-decorating is finished, the tree lies in the snow and my, how fast time passes as another Christmas is history. Happy 2016.

Dog Sitting

If you are a grandparent, sooner or later you will become a dog sitter. If you happen to be one of those rare uninitiated persons, here is a hint: Dog sitting is kind of like babysitting except it’s harder. In the first place, you are dog sitting not for your children, but for your grandchildren. And their standards of required care for their beloved pooch are much, much higher. No tying the dog outside to a drafty old dog house, no siree, dogs nowadays are accustomed to sleeping inside, preferably on a bed – with blankets for those drafts that can suddenly arise from the night air. And, just so you don’t forget, the grandkids will be checking up on you, asking how Fido is enjoying your pillow.

Generally you’ll be dog sitting at home during the winter months while the kids and grandkids are vacationing somewhere that is warm, probably enjoying time on the beach. Meanwhile, you will be suiting up in your cold weather parka with you and the dog taking several trips outdoors so the dog can do his business. This can be annoying if it has snowed several inches and it is too dark to avoid stepping in a pile –  the dog won’t warn you about this either. Even more annoying is when you take the dog out and he doesn’t go …until later, when you don’t want to go back outdoors for the third or fourth time and you especially don’t want to be picking up frozen poop that was left on the sidewalk because the dog wouldn't trudge through the snow.

Dog sitting also means entertaining the mutt. Surely you didn’t think the dog only needs to be fed, watered, pooped, and put to bed, did you? High- strung dogs of today’s ilk need entertainment beyond a few simple dog toys; otherwise you can expect chewed furniture, broken lamps, upturned wastebaskets and other symptoms of doggy boredom, according to experts (and grandchildren who are knowledgeable in such matters). This means you must play with the dog, not canasta or bridge mind you, more like 'throw-the-stuffed-animal' or a game of 'tug' on the chewed, dog saliva-coated toy while the dog growls and jumps around your living room threatening to break the television. I've found dog games like these are not particularly enjoyable for older adults. Instead, I keep my parka handy for regular walks so the dog can sniff out secret places where other dogs have done their business and mark the same spot with his particular odor. It is kind of doggy Facebook and it keeps dogs entertained just like people.

So you probably have guessed that I am dog sitting just now. Here is my charge, Pocket. She is a pup – that means she is even harder to understand than an older animal.

 

 

This is her personal bean bag chair that she likes to make into a bed.

 

The cage provides her personal space.

 

She arrived with her own coat and luggage (the overnight bag) and lots of toys that now decorate our living room floor.

Here she is asking me when we are going outside again.

 

She really is kind of cute, don’t you think? I have to finish this blog since she just told me she is hungry, besides, she and I will be watching Jeopardy together after our walk.