Aftermath

The sun shone mightily and the garden bloomed as hard as it could, full of Spring. People were cheered by this and the bottomless Mimosas (not a Bellini in sight). Alcohol and food and sunshine and, soon enough, stories from the trenches of the latter half of the 20th century. Today the winners were the perils and pitfalls of attending art school when you're 40-something, the trip to Greece with three teenagers to celebrate the 21st birthday of a young woman who never appeared, and a career changing from photography to pruning and plant shaping ( but she's been tending apple trees at the Zen farm for quite some while). It's astonishing how little I would know about my neighbors if I didn't socialize occasionally.

Sunday

There's a garden party at 11 this morning. Fog is blowing in from the Northwest, with a finger-freezing underbite. Gloves at the garden party means no finger food. We'll admire the apple blossoms and profusion of tulips with little visible puffs of approval.
Actually, it will be fun. Wry neighborhood people are coming, including my architect/photographer/sculptor handyperson, who is 6'5" and committed to irony. At some point, he and I will talk about plumbers because he is kind of shy and I, aging, become less social all the time, usually with a passable - if not good - excuse. As I have not previously discussed plumbers at a garden party, I can't predict whether the topic will drive away other would-be conversationalists or attract them. Probably the latter. None of us can afford to move so we're all "improving" our tired old homes. Did I mention that Bellinis will be on offer at the garden party?