Farewell, old friend. You'll be missed.
Okay, I'm exaggerating, but my mom broke her foot yesterday. She and my dad had driven out from PA to St. Louis the day after Christmas for my dad's best friend's dad's funeral, and then to Chicago to visit her sister, as long as they were in the neighborhood (the entire length of the state of Illinois being a "neighborhood" when you're already that far from home), and on the way my mom tripped over some uneven pavement in a gas station parking lot and skinned her hands and knees. She didn't even realize she had hurt her foot until they got to my aunt's house in Chicago and she tried to get out of the car. So now she has a temporary cast on her foot and is at a Chicago orthopedist's office for a follow-up as I type. My poor mom, who's very independent and dignified and hates asking for help, is hobbling around on crutches nine hundred miles from home. I know my dad's taking good care of her, but I wish I were there to help.
The picture is her Christmas gift, the Log Cabin Socks from Handknit Holidays, in Cascade Pastaza. (And her skin isn't actually gray, she's just wearing black pantyhose under the socks.) She refused to let me get a better picture. She was busy with the roast beef she wouldn't let anyone help her cook. Aw, Mom.