In the past month I have frozen 14 dinners in plastic margarine containers to bring to my mother. I should have labeled them when I froze them, but I am not an organized person.

My daughter, Myra, tells me that the cellophane tape won't stick to the cold covers and that the marking pen won't write on the wet plastic. I am rushed as it is since the two older girls are already waiting in the car, but I run to the garage to find some masking tape, in case it is stickier. Danny is in the driveway putting water in the radiator, and I call instructions to him over my shoulder while I hunt for the tape.

"Put four folding chairs in the car and the bag of oranges and the carton of groceries. The milk and the hamburger meat are already in the ice chest. Don't forget the vacuum cleaner. My mother's is broken, and I told her I'd bring mine."