For what has seemed like forever, life has appeared a little dreary and edged with gray.

The universe is using color crayons again and my perspective has become accordingly bright and full.

What the difference is, I really cannot say. It is just one of those times when the blind acceptance of color is the only viable option.

Yesterday, Sunday, we cooked our dinner over an open fire in the back yard. It was our first "campfire" of the season. "The Teenager" got the fire started, but lost interest when the telephone rang. Attila kept it going until I arrived with a tray laden with all the raw materials for our simple meal. A long handled wire contraption allows us to grill sandwiches over the open fire. There is something special about these grilled cheese sandwiches, toasted slowly and browned to perfection.

If it had not rained yesterday after dinner, I would have baked potatoes in the embers of the fire.

"We" are putting a new roof on the garden shed. The use of the term "we" is an attempt at humor. Although I share the cost of the project, I have contributed little else but advice. I left Attila to hammer and rip the old roof to the ground. I pulled a few weeds in the garden as he sawed and hammered the new sheeting into place. I sat in the shade eating a juicy nectarine as the shingles were lined up and secured with hammer and nails. Attila is best left to his own company when such a project is under way; he whistled while he worked.

When the job was nearly complete, we ran out of shingles. The building center had sold all of their "Cedarwood" stock and was waiting for a new shipment. A storm was brewing and the wind was getting up. Attila stapled sheets of plastic over the unprotected portions of the roof and covered the whole thing with a tarp held secure with boards. The storm unleashed its wind, rain, and hail just as he was climbing down from the ladder.

Today, Attila managed to locate and purchase several bundles of shingles and will finish the roof when he arrives home from work.

I will spend part of my day hosting a "lunch meeting". My daughter and three others have been working on a model for their Geography class. It is large and cumbersome and must be transported to the school by automobile. That brings me into the equation. They will meet here at lunchtime to add the finishing touches, and then I will load everyone and everything into the vehicle and head off to the school.

The wedding is looming larger on the horizon. Attila's tuxedo has been ordered. The Bridesmaids have their dresses.

The invitations have been sent and the replies are starting to make their way back to the bride. Our invitation has found its way to oblivion through a series of unfortunate circumstances. It was addressed to a neighbor's house number by mistake. The neighbors promptly wrote "not at this address" on the envelope and popped it into the mailbox at the end of the street. The envelope sported no return address. The post office cannot trace it. Someday post office employees may open it, the RSVP envelope inside will reveal its proper origin, and it will be returned to my daughter.

It seems funny now, but at the time I first discovered this chain of events I was not amused. There are times when I wish that my sense of the ridiculous would come into play sooner rather than later.

The whole discovery was initiated by a phone call from Attila's mother, who wanted to clarify some details about booking rooms at the inn. She assumed that I had received the details enclosed in the invitation. I had not received our invitation and was completely oblivious to the information she thought we shared. Needless to say, rather than clarify details, I confused them further.

I called my daughter in hope of clearing up the puzzle. It was then that I first realized that our invitation was missing. After this discovery, things fell quickly into place and all was resolved happily.

"Oldest Daughter" will personally deliver our invitations when next she visits.