Yesterday, hubby and I loaded up the minivan with a dresser, a desk, a chair, a set of dishes (purchased by me over a period of months at the supermarket), a set of utensils (hubby's original bachelor set), and the cooler which was filled with a batch of my own enchiladas. Daugher #1--our marine scientist--has moved into an apartment, but after years of living in dorms she did not own any furniture. She did have a small television, her computer, and her piano keyboard, but that was it.
Grandma gave her lamps, a table and some mismatched chairs. She bought a bed, a microwave, and a coffee table from one of her coworkers who was leaving to have a baby. Her godmother gave her the dresser, desk, and chair, but hubby and I had to transport the stuff. The apartment is one hundred miles from our home--so it's not around the corner, but we had a pleasant drive yesterday.
After we unloaded all the stuff, the apartment looked a bit more as if someone lives there. I heated up the enchiladas in the microwave and we ate supper. Then hubby and I hit the road for the return trip home. We didn't get back too late, but I was still too tired to do any writing. So I read someone else's book.
Daughter #1 is reading Wuthering Heights. She tells me she is enjoying it. :^) But she wonders why the Bronte sisters liked the tall, dark, and ugly types.
Here's a photo of us standing on the apartment's front porch. I'll have to look around for some porch furntiture next.