Today we busied ourselves, preparing for tomorrow’s BBQ where we expect 30 or so guests. Serge has turned into his angsty, pre-visitor persona, and rushes about to make sure that we don’t appear to be the dirty slobs we are. Well, I more than him to be truthful. Anyway, we were able to squeeze in Finding Dory in the afternoon but the nerves of receiving made it less than wonderful and it wasn’t as funny as Finding Nemo. An hour or so ago, we were sitting out on our new patio, BBQ layout of all the chairs already rearranged a dozen or so times by you-know-who, and I asked him, “When did we get these chairs, where did we live, at the loft?” He said, “No, it was
“Wow, sixteen years,” I observed. Serge looked like he was thinking about
something and I wondered if it was the same as my thinking, which was both,
sixteen years and still good as new, those chairs, and naturally, dang I’m old.
My mind started to wander and I looked at the conifer across the street. It
seemed to have what looked like brown moss growing under the branches. Moreau
“Serge, are those pine cones on that tree over there, or just dead needles?” I asked and added, “I wish we had some binoculars.” Serge leapt up and went in the house. I wondered if we did, indeed, have binoculars. If we did, I had never seen them. Then Serge waltzed out, “Ta-Da! These are my grandfather’s. I remembered we had them.” “Where were they?” I wondered aloud. “In the bathroom.” “Where?” wanting to be sure I heard right. “In the bathroom.” I finished it with, “Okay then,” and wondered where in the bathroom they had been. One of two places really, not worth pursuing a clarification. With the aid of the binoculars, Serge confirmed, “They’re pinecones!” It seemed as though they had appeared overnight, but that can’t be. And I was reminded that change is happening all around us, if only we take the time to notice.
The BBQ day was splendidly warm and unhumid. By the time our guests started arriving, the sun had started dipping past our building bathing the deck in shade. As people arrived, everyone agreed it was the perfect day for it. A handful of guests bowed out that day, and I was a bit relieved as I thought I might not have prepared enough food. It is to laugh. There is so much potato salad left, I’m going to have to toss it which if you know me, I hate doing. I wonder if it would keep in the freezer? We made a mean punch which you could absolutely taste no alcohol in, but after just one, many claimed to be buzzed. I haven’t felt at ease at my own party since, well, ever. I marveled how at peace I was. Maybe it was because all our good friends up here came, people that I am grateful to have in my life and who are grateful that we are in theirs. Friends who know what it means to be friends. Our besties spent the night and we had our ritual mimosas in the morning and went out to breakfast.
The next day was wickedly hot and decidedly more humid. I spent the afternoon outside finishing up my book, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, which got so good, I frequently had frissons tingling throughout my body at the lovely story, beautifully written. It was like a fine wine or grilled filet mignon, delicious. Now I am reading the second in the Outlander series, and while it holds my attention, it is more like drinking supermarket wine or eating a Big Mac. Honestly, she goes on way too long with the sex scenes, I mean really, a whole page that could be three words. They made love. But I am a sucker for the time travel angle, so it is a guilty pleasure nonetheless. Yesterday, as I was reading, I saw the lady who lives down the hill (I am not sure how far down, I’m guessing four or five buildings) a spinster I am sure who every time I’ve seen her has had a look on her face like she’s just been told she lost her job. Not so yesterday, she had gone to the drug store across the street and was returning home with something that looked like triumph on her face, and what was it she was carrying? I waited for her to get closer as she needs to pass our home to arrive at hers so I could see what she had in her hands. Then I smiled big, in one hand she had a six pack of Mountain Dew and in the other above her shoulder a box of
Klondike bars. Poor dear, she must not have air conditioning. One of the nice
things about living in a big city on a busy street is the never-ending people
watching opportunities. My writer’s mind makes up stories about their lives
simply on the evidence of their gait, speed, and how they carry on with others.
I can see it as being a serious activity in retirement.
Oh and by the way, Georgie simply loves barbecues. You can imagine why.