Thanksgiving gatherings at the home of X always remind me that I live in a tiny town & everyone has a strong misinterpretation about everything. Still, it’s on,y an annual miscarriage of understanding & the food (gathered from around town) is always fine & flavorful; these are the times I’m both glad & sad I no longer drink. I think it was Lincoln who said booze filled – & killed that part of the soul that needed filling/killing. I used to navigate that world of petite or petty intrigue on ripples of Orvieto only.
The best of times; the worst of times.
I ate, laughed, commiserated, & gave them – former dear friends as well as new strangers – nothing to relate to anyone else with any degree of pique. I suppose I’ll get used to the New Normal.
Ecbatan 