Since this day, Jan. 17, as I write my Sunday column, is my Middle Daughter’s birthday, I will dedicate it to her. I have always referred to her in my columns as “Middle Daughter.” She was my third child out of five with my husband, Jim.

Since she might be embarrassed if I used her name, I won’t. She is the artist of our family so I will tell you what she is doing for me for the walls here in my assisted-living quarters.

I had two of her very large works, coordinating vining florals, side-by-side, gracing the walls of the living room of my bungalow here in Freeport. I was very proud of them. I also had a still-life painting of a bowl of fruit done by her on my dining room wall. Since there is less room to display the large works where I reside now, Middle Daughter has painted for me — or they are works in progress — smaller replicas of the ones I had in my house. Can you think of a nicer gift? I can’t.

She earned her Master of Fine Arts degree at Northern Illinois University after graduating from Highland Community College. She has always been unusually observant of colors and shapes and textures.

Of course, I have art objects made by my other children placed about. Most of them are things they made in their art classes at school when they were children. There are several clay sculptures, still-life paintings, a little misshapen bowl, a wooden boat, a horse, a dog, a cat. A painting of a bell, book and candle done by daughter-number-one rests on a small end table within my present gaze. Of course, all these relics are precious to me. I can envision the little hands that shaped them, labored over them … and precious memories flood my mind.

One of my favorite hangings is the work of a high school classmate of my eldest child, my daughter. It is an oil painting of Jesus Christ kneeling and washing the feet of one of his disciples. The classmate had been severely crippled by polio as a child but was able to continue his artwork. He grew up to be an art teacher in the public schools of our hometown in Iowa. The painting has a wispy, holy aura to it.

Now, to get back to my artist daughter, my eldest surviving child, she has been designated to take over most of my business obligations and other commitments and business affairs. She also handled the sale of my car since none of the children thought I could or should be driving anymore. I guess they were right, but that independence was one of the most difficult things I had to give up. I believe that is true with many of the elderly in similar circumstances. It is one of the common griefs to bear.

Ironically, I was going to renew my driver’s license the day after my birthday when I fell and broke my hip. Doesn’t that rather fit in with the Biblical reference, “The Lord works in mysterious ways?” But, I ask, “Lord, did you have to do it so soon? I am grounded now and can only go somewhere when someone takes me. I haven’t been in a store, other than a restaurant, since the day I fell.”

Oh well, what do I need to buy anyway?

That, though, my dear readers, giving up driving, is probably the most grating cut to independence and self-esteem there is in this day and age. Oh, I miss my little house a lot, too. It was mine and I lived comfortably there with fine next-door neighbors. I miss them. They were dears I could have turned to for anything.

Neighbors on the American Street side whose lot formed the side border of my backyard shared their tomatoes with me and good over-the-fence chats. All my neighbors were good upstanding citizens. It was a great place to live for this elderly widow. With my son and daughter-in-law not too far away, I was well looked after. I still am for that matter. I feel blessed.

Last Saturday night, a grandson and his fiancé took me out to dinner for a relaxing few hours. I still have a few leftovers from that meal in my refrigerator. I must get that chicken and rice out and heat it up in my microwave for a midnight repast perhaps.

The Wisconsin wing of my offspring also keeps a good eye out for me, so you see I have no real reason for complaint. It’s been an adjustment for sure. I loved my little house and my freedom to go and come as I chose, but I understand that what has to be, has to be. I realize how fortunate I am to have the caring family I do.

Right now, I can look out my window at the sea of diamonds which the sunshine casts on the snow, and I catch the fragrance of dinner wafting down the hallway from the dining room, and I realize I have it pretty good.

I just hung up the phone from my son and he’s bringing some birthday cards for me to sign and for him to deliver to his sister. To top it off I was privileged to talk yesterday via telephone to my lifelong friends Jo and Targe Lindsay of Carmichael, California. I've known Jo from preschool on. She was an “only child” and her parents who had a two-room cottage on ye olde Skunk River in a little colony in southeast Iowa called Oakland Mills would let her invite me to go along with them for weekends and vacation outings.

There was no indoor plumbing in the cabin so we had a dose of primitive living, an outdoor pump for water and a two-hole toilet, but Jo and I had a ball just climbing the rocky banks of the river, sunbathing or talking about boys and literally anything else.

We had those ventures even after we were in high school, and ever after have retained our kinship all these years. My “Gus” as my future husband, Jim Gustason, was known in high school, and her Targe Lindsay, as her future husband, went through grade school and high school together, so we often double-dated for the school dances or movies or picnics. It is always such a treat to talk to them on the phone.

All these years we have kept our friendships alive and our conversations always include a lot of laughter. Jo and I have birthdays a week apart which we always jointly enjoyed, and on Christmas mornings we would always call each other to report what we’d gotten in gifts. Gus and I got married first and when I became pregnant with our first child, Jo would come and take walks with me. I’ve treasured those memories all these years. I think she has too.

I remember when we were in third grade we both had a crush on the same sixth-grade boy, but it never got to be competitive as he never looked twice at either one of us. I’ll have to ask her if she remembers that. I bet she does as she has a better memory for details than I do. That’s just one more thing we can laugh about.

Harriett Gustason is a writer for The Journal-Standard. She can be reached at 815-235-3855 or hgustason@frontier.com.