Thirty-six degrees,” said Grant Toews. “That’s what the temperature was every day for the last week. Pretty amazing.” He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. “That’s the same as it was here,” said Andrew Jackson, who was finishing off a plate of bacon and eggs. “Big deal.” “Plus 36 though,” said Grant.
Rose Jackson slammed the door behind her, stomped her feet on the welcome mat, then sank down onto the bench beside the door to pull her boots off and toss them onto the rubber mat on the floor of the closet. “This is ridiculous!” she called out. “Why are we not in Puerto Vallarta like
I would like to call the annual meeting of Jackson Enterprises to order.” Andrew Jackson spoke from his chair at the end of the table. “That means sit down, Jennifer,” he added. “I’m just getting myself some coffee,” said Jennifer. “Otherwise I’ll just fall asleep.” “You know if you fall asleep we’ll vote you out
“I think we should just be honest with ourselves.” Andrew Jackson set his beer down on the arm of his Adirondack chair and looked around at the people gathered in the sunroom of the Jackson house. Grant and Karen Toews sat across the room from him on the old loveseat, their backs to the windows
Sure smells good in the kitchen.” Andrew Jackson seated himself in the armchair next to the brightly decorated Christmas tree in the living room and cradled his coffee cup in his hands. “Smells good out here too,” said Rose. She sat up on the couch and pulled the comforter she had been napping under up
“I am so proud of you sweetheart!” Rose Jackson set her coffee cup down on the dining room table across from her husband Andrew, who raised and peered at her over the top of the sports section he was reading. “And well you should be,” he said. “What for though?” “The Christmas lights,” said Rose.
Allison Jackson reached for a crayon, then paused and studied the colouring book on the table in front of her. “Have you ever seen a green snowman?” she asked. Rose looked up from her own book and shook her head. “No I have not,” she said. “Me too,” said Allison. “But we are about to.”
Andrew Jackson closed his book, laid it on the bedside table and rubbed his eyes. He turned and peered over the top of his reading glasses at his wife, Rose, who was ensconced under the covers next to him, her laptop resting on her knees. Andrew watched her for a moment before he spoke. “What’s
Who wants to go to the hardware store with me? I need to buy a sledgehammer.” Andrew Jackson stood in the doorway of the sunroom, a scowl darkening his face. His wife, Rose, and daughter Jennifer looked up from their respective chairs. “Why do you need a sledgehammer?” asked Jennifer. “I have to reprogram my