“Late this afternoon."

“Do you want me to go to the airport with you? It's such a long, boring drive."

“Thanks, Shelley, but we don't go for her. She's got a thing about getting herself around."

“Don't you know how lucky you are? I wish my mom felt that way. When she visits, she sees it as a challenge to find places for me to take her to. It's as if the stewardess whispers to her as she gets off the plane, 'Your daughter is dying to turn her life inside out for you. Do her a favor and think of as many things as you can for her to do.' “

Jane looked at Shelley and grinned. "That's what Katie and Denise think of us, too. We're squashed between generations!"

“Somebody once told me we always like our grandparents because they are our enemies' enemies."

“How true!"

“So what are you and your mother doing while she's here?" Shelley asked.

“Didn't I tell you? We're taking a class. I sent her a clipping about Mike's band performance from that local shopping paper. There was a thing on the opposite side about a free class at the community center in writing your own life history. It meets five nights in a row, then it's done. Missy Harris is the teacher."

“Poor Missy. How'd they rope her into that?" Missy was a local writer of romance novels.

“Money, my dears," a voice said from the side of the house. Missy came around, lugging an armload of books and folders. "Don't you know better than to talk about people outdoors?" Missy was tall, angular, and rather homely. She walked with a long, manly stride and said of herself that she looked like John Cleese in drag. The description wasn't far wrong.