We can hear the day start next door when the screen door slams and little voices float over the hedge. Sometimes it’s, “Mr. Burgin! Mr. Burgin!” That call is for both of us; somewhere along the line she has lost the name differentiation.
Yesterday DH was trimming bushes and Little Girl was right there, talking the entire time, wanting to know where “the other Mr. Burgin” was. So I came out to draw on the now-beautiful resealed driveway with our ancient sidewalk chalk and pull weeds and check the rain gauge and deadhead the roses and pick cucumbers and peas. I was distressed that the tallest plant in the perennial bed was a vigorous weed. How could I have missed that? I said, “I’m glad Mr. Burgin pulled that naughty weed!” She said, “Was it you or the boy Mr. Burgin?”
I won’t make a practice of posting the cutest things she says. It’s just that our youngest grandchild is an overly mature 12, and it’s been a long time since someone squealed to see me and took my hand and made me skip down the drive.