When I go to visit my mom these days it is less about doing things than it is about visiting. Other than the occasional ride where she gets to be a passenger again and look out the window, she prefers to be at home. It is a change of pace that is expected, and not un-enjoyable, yet still a sign of the times as she ages. She recounts stories of people I knew and of some long gone before my time, as she is now the keeper of the tales and is passing them along to me. There are tidbits that often have a Laura Ingalls Wilder feel to them though they occurred long after those days, fragments of memories that come to her mind. Stories of the iceman and his wagon, sacks of butternuts and walnuts for winter snacking, woolen swimsuits and shoes that could be resoled when they wore out. It is impossible to have every story make it down through the years, no one can get all the telling done. We only can “set a spell” and listen while we can.