You didn’t look nine months pregnant. You said you felt it, though. Said you felt like a pepper grinder in dance class. I thought that was so funny, it kept running through my mind.

Your house reminded me of the Alamo. It was spare, with adobe walls. I can’t say that it’s a very apt comparison because I’ve never seen the Alamo. It seemed so misson-style, with your crosses everywhere and The Lives of the Saints, through which you paged, looking for outre baby names. Currently you want, for a girl, Forsythia Stapleton. As Rebecca pointed out, it sounds very British. To me it sounds like a plump spoiled English girl. But of course you could never have a plump spoiled girl. It doesn’t fit the genes. Besides, Forsythia isn’t a saint. I don’t think.

I loved the empy cement pond where the children skipped school to go ice-skating. You should petition for it to be refilled in the winter. It might even make a good baby pool in the summer. I wish we could’ve stayed longer. You were incredibly tall and beautiful.

New York was fun, as always. We drove through Oeneanta and Binghamton on the way to Cherry Valley. That was a drive. Annie did reasonably well, considering. I did reasonably well, considering.

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