missing and found

I consider myself much of a Luddite, technologically; I don't have an iPod, can't understand how an iPad works, can barely use the cell phone I've had for only a few months. And yet, on this sunny morning, without even thinking about it, I've just texted my daughter, phoned my mother, checked people I know on Facebook and people I don't on Twitter, did some on-line editing work and emailed Chris at the Vancouver airport on his way here and various others around the world. Luckily some old fashioned technologies hang on; the prehistoric mailman just delivered the "New Yorker" to my mailbox, and upstairs, John and Kevin are still wrestling ancient demons, in the form of tiny nearly invincible insects.

It's a beautiful, warm, breezy morning, still except for the drill and saw in my bedroom and the twitters - real twitters - from the bird-feeder. Yesterday evening I went out to the airport to meet my daughter and her son, returning from 2 weeks in Vernon, B.C., with the other side of the family. They went boating and floating many times on Lake Okanagan, danced at Caitlin's wedding, visited everyone. The wedding favours given to all the guests were jars of homemade blackcurrant jelly from Denise's garden; Anna brought one for me. The boy is bigger and more solid now, laughs constantly and chatters. Yes he does, I know those fluid gurgles are saying, Glamma, good to see you, I missed you.

Boy, did I miss him. How good to hold that sturdy body. At just 3 months, he wants so much to stand, almost more than he wants to eat, which is really saying something. His whole face is alive with interest and excitement. Apparently his great-grandma Connie did not take her eyes from him. She said he was the cutest baby she'd ever met, which made Roger, one of her sons and father of two girls, comment that she was losing her longterm memory. But no, she's not. She's right.

I'm on my way to Nathan Philipps Square, to remember Jack Layton. Talk about being missed.