This blending of generations that will take place over the next six months or so at my house is going to be interesting. In fact, it’s already begun. Jordan delights in hosting happy hour at my house—all her friends live around here. So tonight we had a four o’clock happy hour—two Lily B. Clayton moms who have been so helpful about bringing Jacob home since I don’t yet feel capable of negotiating the steep driveway, the street full of traffic, and the crowded schoolyard. I am grateful beyond words to these two—Amy and Amber—and very fond of them personally to boot.
I was supposed to go to supper with friends at 6:15, but I wavered. I was really tired this morning, and, to my surprise, stiff and sore from what I thought was a minimal yoga workout yesterday. I envisioned the girls leaving about six and me settling down to a quiet evening at home, complete with smoked salmon for dinner (my splurge at the grocery store this morning). In the long run though I decided to do to dinner, and it was a good thing. We went to a First Friday gathering that friends have sort of informally organized at the Kimbell Museum. Delightful except that I couldn’t hear any of the conversation—the dining area is not acoustically friendly, plus they had a three-man jazz band playing. The music was soothing and pleasant, and I settled into enjoying it and not hearing the wild tales that a former Democratic county chair was telling at our table.
I went to dinner at 6:15 and came home at eight to a house full of people and screaming kids. In the course of the evening we apparently hosted three kids, four women, and three men in addition to my immediate family. Over Jordan’s protests I cleaned most of the kitchen and waited for them to leave. Jordan, Christian and Jacob were the last ones out the door, shortly after ten. I’m tired. And I have some cleaning up to do tomorrow. Their chore will be a trip to the liquor store to replenish my nearly exhausted supply of wine.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore Jordan’s friends. They are kind and friendly and loving toward me. They go out of their way to include me in conversations, ask my opinions, make me part of the family, and thank me for having them over. But if the cottage were there and waiting for me, I’d have gone out there about nine and let Jordan worry about the kitchen either tonight or tomorrow (she’s usually so good about that but tonight she fell down a bit). I could enjoy the young company and then have my solitude. Tonight it was 10:30 before I settled alone at my desk—and that’s a time I value.
Progress on remodeling is slow, and I cringe every time some well-meaning soul asks if I am living out there yet. The answer is no. Remodeling hasn’t even started. The contractors, Lewis and Jim Bundock, have been to the city twice and come away without a permit. I’m hoping the third time is a charm—maybe even next week. Sometimes I can envision myself out there and other times I have a hard time wrapping my head around it. It will be an adjustment, but as tonight proved, a good one.