My granddaughter put on some music while we were clearing the kitchen and I recognised a song before she did. Told her I knew it when it was new, not when somebody discovered it on the internet. We danced a little between the table and the stove, no fancy work, my knees had not agreed to a performance. Still felt good to move because the music said so instead of because the garden needed weeding. I was warm and laughing by the time she reached for the last plate. Sat down after that with my feet firmly on the floor. She offered to play another one. Told her this was a kitchen, not an all-night establishment.

My granddaughter wants to record my stories, and I keep wondering where to begin. She says anywhere, but anywhere is a large place. I remember the people at the plant by their shift and where they stood, then have to think hard about the year. If I tell it in the wrong order, somebody will decide I remember the whole thing wrong. She says we can check dates afterward. I know she's right, I've corrected enough records to know a person isn't a calendar. Still, I want the names right. Started writing them down after supper and found I was hearing voices I hadn't thought about in years. Got one spelling to ask the old crew about.

A young woman on the block brought back the pan I had sent over with food and stayed on the porch to talk. I thought she needed something at first, which says more about me than her. She wanted to tell me her little boy liked the cornbread. We ended up talking about her mother and where she grew up, and I was sorry when she looked at the time. New people move in and I can get so busy wondering whether they'll take care of the place that I forget to find out who they are. I liked her. That is the whole report, no committee needed. Sent her home with tomatoes, since she had already returned one container safely.