Up betimes Saturday morning at cri de coeur from Lily, 4, desperately wanting to do something — go upstairs, best I could figure.  A much more modulated voice, also female, was urging patience.

The voice was 8-year-old Madeline’s.

Later I ask Rose, 4, how’s the toast I just made her.  “Lovely,” she says, and I am gratified.  She eats it standing up, on the breakfast table chair.  This works for her.  I have no opinion, and decline to comment.

I ask Rose what she plans to do today, she says, “Color,” which sounds good to me.  I say “Fine.”

We interrupt the interview to let Leo in.  Little trouble unlocking the glass door to the deck, on which Leo waits, scratching with paws against the door.  Rose helps, we get door open, Leo enters, as usual lord of all he surveys, which is only right because he is a cousin of the king of the jungle.

Rose leaves the table, now I have the earlier highly vocal Lily at table with me.  She is now a church mouse, silently spooning her cheerios while Johnny, 6, does justice to his grahams under milk.  It’s a quiet time.

Also here is Grandma, who lets me in on her plans for the day, all of which sound harmless at worst and lovely at best.

So begins another day in vicinity of Lititz PA, a few miles north on 501, then east a mile or two up a winding hill with horse farm and planted fields to the right and houses on a hill side to the left, then left up a steep hill past an old church cemetery on the right, houses on the left, to the road on the left and into this very merry subdivision.  Brickerville is the town.