Back when I used to pack sandwiches and fruit for a passel of children and go to the park, there was an issue. My best friend at the time would plan for her four kids, and I would for mine. But when the quilts were spread on the grass and the baskets were opened, our kids were disgruntled. Suddenly Carol's menu seemed much more enticing than mine, at least to my brood. What I had brought appealed to hers. So we schemed. 

"Let me know what you are bringing," we whispered ahead of time. 

Amazingly the kids fell for it and everyone was fed. 

Which is the point. 

The other day I was coming back from the post office with the elderly man I visit. I decided to spring an idea. 

"Would you like to go to the library?" For a person who sticks to his routine like glue this was positively rash. He considered it for a minute, and then he spoke. 

"I believe I would." Which was all it took. We turned a corner and soon walked through the doors into the cool, quiet room. I went looking for a novel, and he meandered through the mysteries. A few minutes later he had one under his arm. We checked them out and left. 

Each time I spend time with him it melts the part of me that froze fifteen years ago. When my mother died, I had a life bustling with appointments and dishes. Taking my mom to the library never occurred to me. Once near Christmas she timidly asked if I could take her out to see the lights. I was annoyed. She had seen them before. Did she think I had time to burn? Duty won out, and I hustled her through half a dozen roads, while she looked out the window. 

I cannot take her out now, though I think the lights where she lives are spectacular. But I regret how I acted. If I had a do-over, I would turn on the Christmas carols, and buy hot cocoa at a drive through. 

Maybe I will ask the elderly man next December if I can take him to see the lights. 

Love,