Darrel and Mary Ann brought the half-page flier to the house, inviting us to “please come” to their annual block party.  This would be my fourth since moving here.  Why not roll the wheelchairs over? I thought.  I could push Mom’s, and Dad could roll his own.  Dad almost agreed to go, but an urgent and unpredictable bladder discouraged him and convinced him to stay home.  But Mom rolled eagerly in front of me to the back-yard dinner party.  I know her tastes, and served her a hot dog with ketchup, dobs of rotini salad and coleslaw, a triangle of watermelon, and a chocolate chip cookie. She gabbed happily with the neighbors, old and new, each so friendly.  “Where does the name of Hughes come from,” she asked one neighbor, then launched into a discussion of her own ancestry.  Still in my shirt sleeves and tie from work, the new neighbor asked me if I were just coming from work, or my formal business attire was “just how you roll.”  I felt accepted either way.  An evening breeze tempered the September heat as the sun set again over the Great Salt Lake, mirrored in the water, early enough to feel like fall.   This is nice. I thought.  I made Dad’s plate and set it in a mixing bowl: burger patty with melted Havarti, a fried egg, bacon slices, a tomato slice, and the house mayonnaise-ketchup-mustard sauce, with dog in mustard on the side.  Mom carried the bowl on her lap as she rolled happily home.  “Is that for me?” Dad enthused, accepting the mixing bowl and launching into the burger.  The homemade chocolate chip cookies were to die for, and I brought home three for myself.