There was a long table full of her favorite friends, bellinis to drink, some rare beef, grilled zucchini, asaparagus with egg & capers, a quiche, a meringue cake with raspberries, many presents, much laughter.
There were streamers and banners and brightly colored balloons, and the sun came out, always a good sign on one's birthday, the Norwegians say.
And we're practicing the new dining room layout for Thanksgiving, when 24 people will be here. The Maharishi has still steadfastly refused to move his desk (on the right) but we're working on that.
It feels foolish to be this giddy, but both my son and my mother arrive tomorrow, one from upstate New York, the other from England, and the butterflies in my stomach will not settle down.
As an aside, the greater spotted, with the wonky eye, guarded her bed fiercely this morning so that the lesser spotted couldn't get near it. I was making tea at about six and heard the low predatory growl. I'm not fond of referee duties when it comes to the dogs, but I do think these grumbles rather dull. On further inspection, she was coveting a muffin in a paper case, studded with chocolate sprinkles. The question doesn't bear asking, does it?
|Miss W & the greater spotted|
"The seventieth birthday! It is the time of life when you arrive at a new and awful dignity; when you may throw aside the decent reserves which have oppressed you for a generation and stand unafraid and unabashed upon your seven-terraced summit and look down and teach- unrebuked. You can tell the world how you got there. It is what they all do. You shall never get tired of telling by what delicate arts and deep moralities you climbed up to that great place." -- Mark Twain