It seems impossible to me, but the wonderful woman I loved first and best of all is seventy years old tomorrow. She’s a young seventy, with a lot of good years left, still teaching school and running around after her grandchildren. And I do not love her any less than I ever did. More, if possible, though I don’t believe it is.

Tonight the clan gets together for a dinner in her honor, and not beforetime, either. A truly virtuous woman is my mother, whose price, we are told, is far above rubies. Nothing has ever been more certain than that is.

I love you, Susan Jean. We all do.

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