Writing to Melva

It rained a bit this morning, then pretty much cleared up. We went on two walks: one eastward, to the store, and one westward, to the post office.
Eric sat outside writing a letter, mind you, I said writing - not typing. Though it did get typed up, printed, and was our excuse for the walk to the post office.
The letter was to Melva, a 93-year-old fan of his swing band. She is the mom of  Sheryl, one of the sax players - and really is a big fan. Whenever she is in Portland, she comes to the rehearsals and performances; she was a pianist and jazz vocalist from Indiana. That's where she is right now, but would love to be here with Sheryl, whose husband just had cancer surgery and whose daughter was just diagnosed with MS. Life is the pits sometimes, but having Melva around would be a big dose of cheeriness.
Our ballots came today; I've never been so happy to see a ballot. We walked past a house with a lawn sign that read: "Grab him by the Ballot." Good one.