Semi-Daily Scribbles

The current flows through the pie safe, and every Randall, living or otherwise, comes and goes as she pleases. We've established a link up and down the family tree, and our house welcomes all who enter. Uncle Rupert visits often. Without fail, he brings us ginger beer and Pall Mall cigarettes, and tells us about his adventures in Akron. He really likes 1953, but says our time is damn entertaining. Our great-grandmother Harriet leaves us pies. She rarely stays to chat, but her buttermilk is the best I've ever tasted. Fresh as the day she baked it, usually somewhere in the mid-1880's. As for me, I stick to the 20th century, mostly. I'm not one to rough it. The future is also open for perusal, but I haven't gone that route yet. For now, I'm content with the occasional relative-from-the-future who pops in. They've all been really nice. None of them speak or blink, which takes some getting used to, but they sure do like Harriet's buttermilk pie.