Our weekend with Angela and Marshall was so peaceful and uneventful. I felt very guilty about it, though. Who wants to take a train all the way from New York City just to sit in our grubby kitchen? Apparently these two did, because they were very good sports about our weekend and about our very diminished hospitality skills.
We had slow breakfasts of Brooklyn’s finest bagels. We drank lots of tea. We sat around and looked at each other. We got a glimpse of Angela and Marshall’s high-minded New York life by watching Whit Stillman’s Metropolitan. We had “Asian fusion tapas” at Bang! We walked to the farmers’ market with Pyrrha, and Angela bought us a beautiful bouquet. We got to FaceTime with Angela’s delightful mother, which was a dream come true. We listened to music. We stood around in the backyard, looking at plants.
Now we just have to take a trip to New York and do all of the same things.
P.S. And just for kicks, here’s a shot of my sexy husband.
Angela and Marshall are coming for the weekend! We are going to laze about, drink tea, take walks, and reminisce. They are taking the train down from Brooklyn, which is very romantic of them.
Fall brings changes in various ways: The maple trees on the street look like they’ve gone up in a brilliant array of flames; Pyrrha has started barking, even though it’s not intimidating at all; our little hovel is no longer as damp; I am reading poetry again; I am writing again; Guion is… OK, Guion is the same, blessedly the same.
I am reading American Primitive, by Mary Oliver, right now. I don’t know if Oliver is a critically acclaimed poet, I don’t know if I should be embarrassed to mention her in the company of the MFA community, but I love her. I don’t care who knows it! She’s like Annie Dillard, if Annie Dillard wrote Pulitzer Prize-winning poetry. She makes me want to go outside and sit in the leaves and carry on conversations with woodland creatures. As you do in the fall, when you are reading poetry.