It is a fact that I tend toward melancholy. This is not to be confused with having a sentimental streak. THAT I do not. At our recent yard sale—which nearly killed me and several of the shoppers—I all but threw merchandize (including vintage linen and quilts, 60-year old, pristine kid gloves, silver plate whiskey sour muddlers and a set of library steps) at the milling crowd. “Take it,” I screamed, “Just get it out of here!” When a particularly creepy man asked us if there was more to see inside the house I almost told him “Yes, just go in there and strip the joint!”
My mother would be so proud. Oh, not that her first grandchild, the only one she ever knew, and then only for a year, has just graduated from college. That’s a given.
My sister is visiting with her daughter, Lily. A more lithesome, light and lovely girl you couldn’t conjure–unless you grew up with Liza, her mother, who very nearly floated through her first 16 years on long legs and pointe shoes. Now, before those of you who know me too well roll your eyes and take bets on how long before Liza and I cross the Rubicon of sisterhood and kill each other, let me just tell you this; I have not stopped laughing since she got here.
It is right and proper that our last days in London are straight out of some 19th century novel of manners (and summertime). The sky is high and blue, the privet blossoms so fragrant the roses are fighting for attention. Every flower is blooming, the boxwood is such a deep green it is nearly blue and the hollyhocks (hollyhocks, in a city!) are waving like fly fishing poles in the breeze.