It’s unusually cool this evening. I’ve got a couple on their honeymoon, a hippie family from Arkansas, a four-man Japanese rockabilly band, a biker from Arizona, Joey, Grant, Dr. Scherer, Joyce, and the Scherers’ 5-year-old granddaughter all running around the front yard, toasting marshmallows, dancing through the night with sparklers, and staying up waaaaaaaaaay past the kids’ bedtimes as they enjoy a beautiful Saturday night on Route 66.
Harvey can’t decide whether to be scared of the sparklers or excited about the prospect of making new friends, so he is sitting under my chair, wagging his tail and whining for someone to come and pet him.
In the kitchen, I have three enormous pans of bread pudding cooling on the counter, and there’s a gallon of rum sauce in the refrigerator, waiting to be warmed up and poured over the pudding tomorrow afternoon.
I didn’t realize it when I was signing the closing papers last winter, but I am pretty sure this moment is the reason I bought the Tumbleweed.