I was awakened by my granddaughter Libby; she had run down the stairs to my basement bedroom and was shouting in my half-awake ear.
"Grandpa, come upstairs, Cousin V has made us oatmeal for breakfast."
"Yuk, I don't want any oatmeal!" I kidded.
She lectured with the assurance of a four-year old, "But, oatmeal is good for you; it helps you grow up big and strong!"
"I'm already big and strong." I said.
We were having a reunion in Missoula, Montana at Cousin V's. The day before, we had gone to Superior to clean up around the family gravesites. Libby's mother had told her that a cemetary was a happy place where they put people's names on stones so we could remember good things about them after they had died.
Back at my ear, Libby explained, "Grandpa! You have to eat your oatmeal, so you'll grow old and die and get your name on a nice stone."
