“You are such a good dog! Aren’t you just a perfect dog?” I ask them. And the dogs agree that I am correct—they are all perfect dogs.

The stage is high, so I am right at shoe level. The shoes in musicals are amazing. Tap shoes and dance shoes and shoes covered in sequins. One show had heels that were actually small disco balls.

I know immigrants came for many reasons—to start businesses and escape oppression and to avoid starvation. But, as far as I know, my ancestors were in search of better dirt. And they found it.

I walk down the sidewalks, admiring these lovely houses, often at night, and sometimes I even peep through the windows. It’s hard not to when the windows are large and the lights are on. (My friend Verne calls me a Peeping Tom, and he may be just a little bit right.)

Peter doesn’t think the day of his birth is anything to celebrate. He’s happy to celebrate my birthday, but he says he should get to do what he wants to do on his birthday. And what he wants to do is not celebrate. So that’s what we do.

I was once told by a reliable source (my brother-in-law) that I must never get a fitness tracker because watching the numbers click up for every step I took would become a mad compulsion.

On a weekday, I was passing by the rectory. I didn’t know what a rectory was until I googled it and learned this was where the priests lived. A man in his thirties came out the door. He was not wearing a clerical collar, but I figured if he lived in the rectory, he would have to know what was going on. So I pounced.

We got the dock into the water. It was a little cattywampus, but it was more or less ready for another season. “I might need to get a kid to help me with some things this fall,” my dad said, as if this was a major concession at 92.

I remember the sweetness of Laura Ingalls Wilder describing Pa playing the fiddle by firelight in the middle of the Wisconsin woods, and I remember the horror of Hans Christian Anderson describing the house where the witch lived at the bottom of the sea, built with the bones of drowned sailors.

I have no idea how a goose landed on our balcony, 10 stories in the air. Landing on a narrow railing—even with a potted plant as a landing pad—demonstrates a kind of agility I honestly didn’t think geese were capable of.