Worked an hour on thirty-sixth glaze, then Aubrey and R. arrived from university.

During my last visit to Cheloy Dans, the artist who taught me oil painting when I was in sixth grade, she told me many stories about her life as a mother. When her children were grown, some of them told her, quire resentfully, that she was not there for them. She was caught by surprise at this accusation. I know that, being an artist, she was often immersed in her work unmindful of the other people around her.

I learned much from Cheloy's anecdote. That is why, even when I am in the midst of writing or painting, I drop everytyhing when my children and grandchildren are at home and need something, even if all they want me to do is talk to them or listen to them.