Note: This column appears in today's New Castle Courier-Times. A much shorter version appeared on Ovid Community Church's Facebook page as a Wednesday devotion. Times and seasons of life change. #Feelinggrateful.
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By Donna Cronk

The first mother-daughter banquet I remember was at about age 4 in the basement of our little Methodist Church. It was also my first experience with favors, those pretty or useful “little somethings” appearing at each place setting – keepsakes to remember an event. Oh, I remember. I can still envision the plastic red roses. I thought they were gorgeous.

Through the years I looked forward to attending these spring affairs with my mother. Each was a chance to dress up, have a fancy (for us) meal, be entertained by a singer or speaker, maybe play a game or win a door prize. Most of all, it was a night out with Mom.

Then I grew up and moved far from my hometown. It no longer seemed feasible to make it back, about 160 miles, for the Mother’s Day banquet tradition. Still, I mentally sighed, wishing I could be no other place.

Even though I loved these banquets that celebrated mothers and daughters, we never attended one together in my adult years. When I think of the many do-overs I wish I had in life, this is one of them. I should have taken time off work and gone.

But when you’re 30, it seems a hassle for something so minor. It isn’t until you reach 60 that you know it wasn’t minor to spend a special night with your mom and to recognize what I would give for one more. 

Then came the years of her Alzheimer’s disease, while at the same time Brian and I were raising two sons and working at our careers. These were years when a mother-daughter banquet seemed an alien concept. With my mother unable to attend, and having no daughters, not to mention no sisters, nor cousins to accompany me, I figured I’d never again attend such a sweet evening.

I didn’t feel I had a place at the table. 

Who could guess the turns – I would call them blessings – that life can take? My Sam married a girl who not only relishes mother-daughter banquets, but Allison and her mother have often planned them at her Indianapolis church. It turns out I would be included each year on the guest list! 

But there’s more. Once I published my novels, I started getting invitations to speak at mother-daughter banquets. Banquet season is when I’m asked to speak most. I’ve spoken twice each at my church and at Allison’s church in recent years. Not only did I have a seat at the table, but also a son in the kitchen helping with the meal and a husband serving food off rolling carts!

This season, I’ve spoken at two banquets and attended two more as a guest. My tea cup runneth over.
Mother’s Day isn’t all sunshine and flowers to every mother or daughter but you probably don’t know that because they tend to keep quiet this time of year. It can be painful to those who no longer have their mothers around on such a sentimental, emotionally charged day.

I like how my church started calling theirs Daughters of the King banquets. What a brilliant way to get around the high emotions of “mother-daughter.” We’re all daughters of the King! That means we each have a seat at the table.

If this day is hard on you for any reason, and you don’t feel you have a seat at a table, as I felt many years about mother-daughter banquets, ask the Lord to restore that seat to you – at whatever table it is that pains your heart. God is in the business of restoration and He can make things happen in ways we could not, even on our most creative days.

I’m thinking of that beautiful scripture of Joel 2:25 (NIV): “I will repay you for the years that the locust has eaten ...”

This restoration of mother-daughter banquets into my life may sound like a small thing. But it is not. Those banquets with my mother meant a lot. Now they mean a lot in a new way I – a way I had never imagined possible.
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Courier-Times Neighbors Editor Donna Cronk also edits the quarterly her magazine for women. She is currently looking for essays from local women about great vacations they have taken, along with photos, for the next issue. Deadline is June 1.

When Judy Booe of Veedersburg surprised me with an invite to speak at the First Christian Church's Spring Fling mother-daughter banquet, I was delighted to say yes! The evening proved a trip down memory lane and a chance to reminisce with friends from the 1980s spent in Fountain County.​

Following the lovely banquet, those with Fountain Central ties enjoyed gathering at Tom and Judy Booe's home to reminisce and laugh about the good old days. The joy of my book journey continues to be the memories made in renewing contact with so many wonderful people we've known throughout our lives. I didn't want the evening to end ...

And sure enough, it was about 12:30 a.m. before we rolled in back at home.

Then up and off for me to New Castle to attend the confirmation into St. James Episcopal Church of my friend and writing colleague, Stacey Torres. She was confirmed by The Right Rev. Jennifer Basketville-Burrows, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Indianapolis -- the first African-American woman elected a diocesan bishop!

Then home ... and off again to the Mother-Daughter Banquet at my daughter-in-law's home church, Zion Evangelical Church of Christ in downtown Indy.

It's been a FULL but fully satisfying weekend. My gratitude to all involved.

 The following feature was recently published in the New Castle Courier-Times. It is my honor to share another story from our Greatest Generation.

by Donna Cronk

As one of the 16 million American veterans who returned from World War II, ready to restart their lives with jobs, marriages, families, and find a post-war normalcy, Forrest Owens resumed his life after serving with the U.S. Marines.

He became an electrician, married Mary, and started a family.

For 30-and-a-half years, he worked at Chrysler Corp. in New Castle, retiring in 1999. The Kentucky 
native returned to his home state in 2017, and today, he and daughter Beverly reside together in 
Grayson where they lead a quiet life.

Inside his storage bin are artifacts from a time that was anything but quiet. Among his honorable discharge and letters of commendation papers are two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, a Blue Enamel Star, Asiatic Pacific Combat Ribbon with two gold stars, and the American Defense Metal.

Owens’ service included first-wave invasion of the brutal island battle of Iwo Jima, located 660 miles 
south of Tokyo. He was a part of it for the first nine days, there when one of the most iconic moments 
in U.S. military history was recorded as the American flag was raised on the island’s highest point.

During this intense five-week battle, 7,000 Marines lost their lives and another 20,000 were wounded. One of the wounded was Owens, who was sent home to recover. 

When Owens, who will be 94 on April 26, was asked what it was like to be at Iwo Jima, the Marine 
says that he “never thought a lot about it until recently.” He adds that in the last few years he realizes 
“how happy I was (that) I was there and did this and saw this.”

Excitement over the flag

On day five of the battle, U.S. Marines took the highest point, Mount Suribachi, and raised the 
American flag. Owens recalls someone saying, “Look at Old Glory on Hot Rock.” He says everyone 
started yelling and carrying on with happiness over the sight. He didn’t see the Marines place the flag 
but he said the flag was “just starting to wave” when he spotted it.

The battle continued, and on the ninth day, the Marines were in the process of taking the second 
highest point. It was then that Owens was wounded when a grenade exploded and hit his mouth, 
injuring it and taking out two teeth. But instead of being treated and sent back into battle as Owens 
expected, he was shipped back to the U.S. to heal.

“I was wanting to stay,” Owens recalls. “I was hoping to get through that without (being) wounded.” He 
also wanted to remain with his buddies, and had been promised a promotion following his effort at Iwo Jima. Yet at the same time, he was happy to survive and go home. 

After all, this was his third war wound. Prior to Iwo Jima, he fought in Guam scouting out Japanese 
positions. He had been trained for the job by learning how to fight in thick jungles with mud, heavy rain and 100-degree heat. One sergeant told him that his background as a Kentucky country boy would serve him well, adding, “It’s like squirrel hunting, except the squirrels shoot back.”

In Guam, he was wounded in the right shoulder by shrapnel, then when leaving the hospital following 
treatment, wounded again, that time in the left hip. He recovered at Pearl Harbor, and months later, 
was sent in with the first wave to Imo Jima. 

Owens said landing on the island was rough because the amphibious tracked landing vehicles 
carrying soldiers came under immediate fire. The landing vehicle next to his own exploded and men 
inside it were killed and wounded. 

“Hell on earth, the first day,” Owens describes. That day alone, his outfit lost five of eight officers – 
including the captain. Of the 220 soldiers, 111 lost their lives.

On that day, he did a lot of praying and imagines that most of the soldiers did likewise. Owens 
describes his nine days on the island as a time of intense fighting and death.

“I was scared all the time I was there,” says Owens. “All day and all night you expected to get hit. 
People getting killed all the time. I was happy to make it through.”

But make it he did, and he remembers so much about the period that he could fill a book, not just a 
news article. 

Taking the island was significant, according to information from The National WWII Museum in New 
Orleans, because securing it meant the island would provide emergency landing space for 2,200 B-29 
bombers and save the lives of 24,000 U.S. airmen. It was important in the war effort to fight the largest 
Pacific battle of World War II – the invasion of Okinawa. 

Admiral Chester W. Nimitz is quoted as saying, “Among the men who fought on Iwo Jima, uncommon 
valor was a common virtue.”

Wanted to be a Marine

Owens volunteered for service on his 18th birthday and joined the Marine Corps. He enlisted because 
the war was going on. “Everybody was patriotic and all the young men wanted to go.” He wanted to 
be a Marine due to the heroic strides they were making.  “They were heroes and I wanted to be part of 
it.”

Following his service, Owens married Mary, and the couple had five children: Allen Owens (wife Teresa) of New Castle; Terry (wife Beverly A.) Owens of Noblesville; Beverly S. Owens of Grayson, Kentucky; the late Darryel Owens, formerly of Houston, Texas; and the late Rickie Owens, previously of Shirley. 
​
Both Darryel and Rickie are buried in Knightstown. During Forrest Owens’ years at Chrysler, the family 
lived in Wilkinson. Mary passed in 1998.

Says Owens, the two-time World War II Purple Heart recipient, “I’m very proud of our veterans today, 
our service people. I have a great honor for them.”

His daughter Beverly, a former Wilkinson resident, says her dad still drives, needs no home assistance, 
gardens and until last year, kept bees. He still has three living brothers of five original, and two living 
sisters of three.

His involvements include membership in the Shirley Masonic Lodge No. 531; Shriner’s Club in Shirley; 
life member of the New Castle VFW; member of the Scottish Rite in Indianapolis, and member of the 
Willard, Kentucky American Legion Post 342.

His daughter said he often speaks of the boys from all over the country whom he served with in the 
service, including those who were lost in battle. She said he would enjoy hearing from old friends who 
probably have lost track of him. Cards may be sent to Owens at 204 W. 2nd St., Grayson, Kentucky 
41143.

“I’m very proud of him and I’m honored that he’s my dad,” says Beverly.

Did you ever wrap your school books in paper to make dust jackets? I never did. But daughter-in-law Allison did back in the day, and she came up with an inexpensive solution to organize our photo albums.

She suggested craft paper and numbers. So far today, with one done before church and two after church and lunch this afternoon (it's not even 2:30 p.m. yet), three are finished.

Through the decades I have taken lots of photos. We have about a dozen random photo albums. It's been a long time since I added albums but I do have envelopes full of photos from many different vacations, occasions and a whole lot more hiding in The Cloud from my cell phone.

But my dilemma at hand is: How to attractively organize and display the existing photo albums that display snapshots from our family's life -- literally -- from the 1970s through about 2010 when I stopped buying these.

I told Allison that I don't plan on scrapbooking these. You'll note the several scrapbooks I created for the boys in time for display at their high school graduations (at left). These are nicely done, as are some other specialty scrapbooks, including a This is Your Life for Brian's 50th and scrapbooks I created for Brian and his brother Steve of their father's World War II history.

But scrapbooking done "by the book" is labor intensive, expensive, and frankly, no longer anywhere on my to-do list. I also didn't want to buy new albums. 

Allison's idea is ideal. I already have a big roll of the craft paper, cheap and plentiful if I need more, rolls of excellent-quality postal tape, and I picked up some numbers. Starting with the first album of photos from high school (number 1), and going through the years in order, I'll number the photo albums and place them back on the bottom of our new bookcases.

Our progress in completing the space I think of as our new study is on hold at the moment as we need to buy two more bookcases, move our vinyl records upstairs for placement on the bottom row of one new bookcase, wait for our new chairs to arrive, select a lamp and throw rug to hide the cord, and then--I'll show you the end result.

I have a little patch of free time this afternoon so I'll get two or three more of these albums covered and numbered, and work on the rest as I can.

I searched Pinterest for ideas on storing and organizing family photos and nothing much resonated. Allison's idea is the best solution by far that works for our situation. 

And, I've had a chance to walk down memory lane as I've worked on these. Right now, I'm in the 1980s. Here's one of me while managing editor at the Attica newspaper, now the county-wide Fountain County Neighbor.

Next are a couple photos I took when I had the opportunity to accompany some kids from Attica Elementray School go see President Ronald Reagan arrive at the Purdue University Airport, and give a speech.

It was exciting for this small-town reporter. Welcome to my 1980s...

Back to 2019. (Is that even possible?)

What I would like to know is how YOU store and display your family photos and in particular, what about all your random family photos stashed in albums like mine?

      I’ve been slacking in the blogging department lately. It seems that too many other projects have been demanding attention. I’m not complaining; they are all positive uses of time.
​      As you might surmise from the photo above, we’re in the midst of redoing our “bonus” room upstairs in our house. I don’t like the term, “bonus” room. I suppose it’s a logical-enough generic title real-estate folks give to an undesignated “bonus” space in one’s home.
      It's vague enough to allow potential homeowners to envision the random space however they want, keeping the area open to possibilities. But the name sounds to me as though the builder had some extra materials and time and as an after-thought, decided, “Oh, what the heck. Let’s just slap on another room.”
     For the first decade we lived here, the room under the eaves at the top of our stairway was something of a family room. I’ll never forget move-in day when I made the unrealistic request to move our roll-top computer desk upstairs. My fearless helpers did it, although they all may require hip or knee surgeries these 21 years later, dating back to the moment of hefting that thing skyward.
    When laptops revolutionized our online work spaces to hours spent with keyboards in home easy chairs and even while stretched out in bed, the computer desk became a dinosaur.
     I tried selling it (yes, you can LOL) on Facebook, then giving it away. No takers. I learned that not even Goodwill accepts these relics, nor do they take entertainment centers, another dated concept that worked well a generation ago.
    Our bookcases, our second-string sofa and loveseat, and a TV with a game system hooked up filled much of the room in the years the boys were home. There, they enjoyed their games and did homework at Brian’s high school desk.
    Once the boys left home, something like a decade ago, I had no vision for the mostly abandoned space. For a while, I stocked it with summer outdoor furniture in the off-season as well as miscellaneous antiques. Our bonus space became more of an attic than anywhere we wanted to spend time.
    It was Brian who suggested a makeover! So this winter and early spring we’ve sorted through all our books, donated 110 volumes and reassigned others to different venues in the house, ordered and installed carpet, I’ve worked on streamlining and organizing family archives of photos and paperwork, and we got rid of excess furniture, hauling things down, and then last weekend, back up again after the carpeting went down and we undertook a careful edit.
     Last Saturday after celebrating Ben’s birthday in Indy, Sam and Allison took us to IKEA in Fishers. We had never been, although Brian had long since told Allison he wanted her to give him a personal tour.
     We found new bookshelves, in black, to go with our new space, and picked them up yesterday. The kids are coming Sunday to help put them together.
    We have easy chairs ordered, and within another three weeks, our bonus room will have morphed into a new “study.”
    I’ll show you pictures when that happens but for now, it’s under construction, so here's the before view..
    My other construction project consists of writing four programs for spring! In fact, I need to make hay on a couple of these today. The first is a program for a Knightstown sorority week after next. I’ve never spoken to this group before, and their emphasis for April is on the literary arts. I’ll speak on the topic, “It’s all about the story,” and reflect on a career consisting of various kinds of writing.
     Then from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Friday, April 12, Hinsey-Brown Funeral Service in New Castle is hosting a special program called “Luncheon With the News Girls. They’ve invited a variety of women who take part in regular outings organized by Wanda Jones. There is a catered meal and the program features my friends and sister authors Sandy Moore, Tina West and myself. We’ll each give short programs and after that, visit with attendees and have book signings.
     Seating is limited, but we’re allowed to invite some friends ourselves. So if you would like to attend, RSVP as instructed on the flyer below. Reservations are required and going fast.
    Then in May, I’m speaking at two mother-daughter banquets – one near the Ohio border and one near the Illinois one. I’ll be sharing reflections on my journey as a granddaughter, daughter, mother and the joy of learning I would become a mother-in-law.
    So those programs, too, are under construction.
   With that said, I’d best get my hard-hat on and get to work.

We were happy for a clear, sunny day as we motored 2 1/2 hours  northwest to have late lunch / early supper today -- lupper?-- with pals Tom and Char. When everyone's schedules are busy, meeting for a meal is a good way to stay in touch and get everyone back on the road. 

It's also a good opportunity to plan for future get-togethers that last longer.

I had never been to the tour-friendly Fair Oaks Farms complex just off I-65 at Fair Oaks, Indiana but there people of all ages can learn about different aspects of agriculture.

Of course one aspect of agriculture --the end result-- is enjoying a meal and we did just that at The Farmhouse. 

Although spring rolls in next week, today it was cold and the fireplace was warming to our late-winter spirits. The restaurant is comfortable, attractive, and the food is delicious and features generous portions. In fact, Char's corned beef and cabbage was enough for our lupper but also provided enough leftovers to go home with them.

Onsite or locally sourced foods when available go into the dishes. Brian had a chicken and bacon sandwich, Tom enjoyed meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans and all three of them had cups of potato-leek soup. I had a farmhouse salad and a bowl of delicious beef chili. I'm a chili hound and it was some of the best I've ever enjoyed.

We savored the meal, the visit, and then our friends headed back north to visit their family members and help with a big painting project. We scooted back southeast and got home before dark.

In all, a relaxing Saturday day trip enjoying a Hoosier agritourism destination.

The following column appeared in Sunday's, March 10, Courier-Times.

In our 60s now, Brian and I are clearly beyond the era of furnishing our home. We’re more in the stage of unfurnishing it. 

In this latest round of “what we keep,” the topic is books. We’ve collected volumes all our lives. My collection began at the top of the stairs in the old Veach’s store in downtown Richmond where a rack of Little Golden Books caught my eye when shopping with Mom. I’d be permitted to pick one to buy on occasion, and more than half-a-century later, I still have those shiny-covered stories. 

When Grandma Jobe was ill in the 1960s, she received a sunshine box from church friends. It contained small amusements, encouragements,  and cards. I still have the slim volume of friendship-themed poetry from that box. I’ve raised my hand with that tiny book in it several times, set to discard it, but always stop short.

College books in my major seemed too important to hawk at the campus bookstore. So the texts about editing, crafting feature stories, the history of journalism, and the requisite grammar books have roomed on our shelves for thirtysomething years.

Then came the decades of novel buying, gifting, garage saling. There were Friends of the Library-sale tables that yielded recycled tomes for a quarter apiece and offered no guilt if I didn’t read them right away – or in 20 years. Then there is my double-copy problem. When I enjoy a book such as “The Shipping News,” if I find a duplicate on the cheap, I’ll pick it up for a loaner. 

Brian has similar stories. He attended college a good many more years than I did for a master’s degree and certifications beyond that. He never wanted to purge his textbooks. In one noteworthy attempt, I held the volumes up and he would declare to keep or not. One book of poetry garnered his curious comment, “I hated that book. Keep it.”

So that’s how the weeding process has gone until now. We got a new sofa downstairs which inspired us to remake our upstairs bonus room. The room is where most of our books hang out and every last one of them, along with their shelving, and all manner of miscellaneous and mismatched furnishings, have to be hand-carried downstairs before our new carpeting is installed.

I’m envisioning a carefully edited library area with new shelving, a library table moved upstairs from down, and a designated family archives section where neatly organized lidded baskets will hold a family-history paper and photo trail. Should the need arise for our presidential libraries, it’s all there.

Meanwhile, we’ve given away works of Bill (Shakespeare); Uncle Walt (Cronkite’s bio), and a good number of less notable notables, including those duplicate loaner copies. Brian has decided that when it comes to our volume of volumes, less is less.

“All books do is sit there on the shelves,” he said.
“Yes, that’s what books do. It’s who they are,” I told him.

What does he expect them to do, spin, or for the non-fictions to reshelve themselves just for kicks into the middle of the photo albums? For Dad’s art books to mix it up with the novels?

So far, the tattered sofa and loveseat are gone; the new carpeting ordered, and we’re each hauling down at least one armload or large object a day, our stated minimum requirement on this project.
Then we'll reverse the process and the edited version will go back upstairs. At this rate we might be done while still in our 70s.

We’ve gone through nearly every book in the house and given each the yea or nay. No book in our collection is worth a marital spat so the criteria is simple.

1. Each of us may keep any book with no judgment from the spouse. (Rolling of the eyes is not to be within view.) 

2. However, if there is no expressed desire to retain a book, and if said owner does not see himself or herself enjoyng it within the next 10 years, it’s gone.

If one person’s trash is another’s treasure, then our recycled books are someone else’s shelf problems. We wish them well.

Brian kept the poetry book because he hated it so much. Remember, I’m not allowed to judge. (Rolling eyes out of view.)
​
Donna Cronk is Neighbors Editor of The Courier-Times. She also edits the quarterly her magazine for women.

The following column recently appeared in The Courier-Times.

The other morning I looked down and there was our Boston Terrier, Reggie, enjoying a cuddle in the 
comfort of our true-blue afghan.

That piece of handiwork was crocheted as a 1976 Christmas present my senior year of high school.
All the kids in the family got one, each  in a different color scheme, made by my sister-in-law 
Jeannie's mother, Evelyn, who passed away last year.

Who could have possibly guessed that over the next 42 years—and counting—that blanket would not 
only hold up great, but retain its bright blue hues, machine wash and dry like a dream, and fold neatly 
on the sofa? 

In the early days of our marriage, Brian recalls us fussing over which one would take possession of the afghan first on a cold winter's night. Known for its extra-long, mega-wide size, it has always been a favorite warmer.

I remember our couple friends who visited on New Year's Eve 1978, where we played Atari. Brian and I had been married just a couple months, and one of our friends realized she was chilling and taking ill that very evening. We swaddled her in the blanket to warm her up. I think it went home with them for the night. 

Once it wrapped a baby niece who was visiting—and went home with her on the ride home in a chilly 
car. We got it back next time we visited the family.

Older son Sam describes the blanket as a "family heirloom," because our sons have spent their fair 
share of moments wrapped in the still-serviceable keepsake.

For a while, we thought the afghan was gone for good. It hadn't turned up for a couple years, a 
mystery. Brian and I remained convinced that it had gone off with son Ben to college when he and 
three other boys rented a house for two years. We could only speculate—but not dwell—on what had 
happened to cause the disappearance of the old afghan. One thing for sure, we didn't think we'd ever 
see it again.

Then one day last year I was rummaging through layers of blankets folded under some throw pillows in an antique family cradle kept upstairs in our home, out of the way. To my astonishment—there was the blue afghan. I don't remember placing it there, but it looks like something only I would have done in an absent-minded way, perhaps in the heat of summer when the need for an ultra-warm afghan was a distant concept.

I quickly summoned Brian with news that what was lost is now found! We were both delighted.

This winter, the afghan is in use again, generally splayed across the sofa after being enjoyed yet again, 
now by the empty nesters and their dog. And yes, Reggie is quite happy to take her turn under or on 
top of its thick and cuddly surface.

Here's to you, blue afghan. Long may you warm the chilled and comfort the ill.

We're getting some new furniture. It came in earlier than we expected, which means we aren't ready and had to delay delivery for a week. It also means that we got ourselves in gear to redistribute the old stuff.

So today, it was up and cooking breakfast early for the moving crew. In the spirit of make-do Americans past and present, at least those in our families, Ben said he would like our old sectional sofa. I think it's in the blood, as well as the bank account, because Brian and I were handed down a sofa from his folks for our first rental home--and we were glad to get it, I might add. 

We were so excited to sleep in our rented farmhouse that first night before our other furniture arrived (notably, my childhood canopy bed, sans canopy) that we slept side-by-side on our used sofa.

So at 7:45 a.m. today, Sam was the first arrival and I began creating custom-order omelettes for the three of them.

Brian picked up the truck and the guys rolled to Indy not long after that. I had fully planned to go along and offer essential advice that every mom is good for -- "Be careful on those steps, you guys;" "Don't drop it!"; "Easy;" "Watch your fingers."

But before I could get on the road, a text came from a charity that I had given up on regarding taking our upstairs sofa and love seat. There was a chance they could pick them up at 11 if that worked. I said I'd stick around and see if it worked out. It didn't, but I was pleased to know that my trio down at Indy survived not only the move upstairs to Ben's apartment of the old sectional sofa, but also the move down and out of Ben's former used sofa. They got by without my, "Be careful in the door frame!"

When Brian got back to town, he called for me to head out to pick him up at the rental place. "That went about as smoothly as it could have," he assessed of the morning move.

Buoyed by the news, and it being a mere minutes after noon, we decided to delve into a related project. If your family is like ours, whenever there's a decorating project such as new furniture, that leads to another semi-related project. In our case, it's prep work for a revamp of our upstairs bonus room. That means many things, starting with weeding out a large number of books of all kinds. I'll save those details for another blog post.

Since I wasn't there to see the results, I asked Ben to text me a photo. He did, along with a photo of a meal he put together with some leftovers I sent him home with.

And, he sent this text, "Cannot believe the beloved Cronk couch is in my apartment."

Warms this mama's heart, for sure.