When some visiting grandchildren clamored for a visit to a quaint museum in a nearby town, Frieda agreed to go. It was better than trying to take on the Zipper at the amusement park.
Arriving at the museum with a veneer of shake shingles and newly-painted clapboard, the group tumbled into the main room.
A costumed host greeted the family, answering questions as a turn-of-the-century resident would have done.
The living room boasted kerosene lamps, chairs of solid maple, and cameo paintings on the walls.
Freida followed the family into the tiny bedroom and then to the kitchen where many old utensils were grouped on the wooden table.
“Isn’t this great, Grandma?” asked Kim, one of the grandchildren.
Freida’s head pivoted as she studied the kitchen layout. “Sure,” she said. “But I don’t understand why you’re so excited. I have all this stuff in my kitchen.”