I have been going to various chain stores here in Denver looking at range ovens for my sister Susan and my condo down in Stuart, Florida. I went from place to place looking for the best deal on a gas range, and when I finally found the right one and called a branch of the store down in Florida to place an order, I was asked whether the connection was liquid propane or natural gas. I had to call the condo complex's office down in Florida to answer that one, and was told - to my great surprise - that all the stoves in the complex were electric, not gas. That tells you, for one thing, how long it has been since I last used that stove. But why was I so sure it was gas? My only answer is that the condo was what I consider our last family home. So much so that I confused the stove in the condo with the one in our house in the south side Brainerd neighborhood of Chicago, where I grew up. I know for damn sure that one used natural gas. Maybe Doug - my friend and former University of Denver Bookstore co-worker - was right when he referred to me (jokingly I assumed) as "crazy old man Hoyt." And so therefore, nostalgia freak that I am, I am featuring a photograph of my mother proudly sitting on the railing in front of that house in Brainerd she loved so much. And I definitely now realize that I need to retire pretty soon with at least a few of my marbles left.
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