Of Many Things

It poured rain the entire day that Christmas in Georgia, but we never let it dampen our spirits. I was visiting close neighbors, Sam and Beth and their young son. The three of us had prepared a vegetarian feast of succulent grain dishes, vegetable medleys, fruits, nuts, goat cheese and breads, not to mention our own vintage wines and liqueurs (mine was blueberry), which we spread on a table set for nibbling and dining. My hosts kept the wood stove popping and the room cozy as we sat rocking on our chairs. We sang a little and played guitar, recorder and flute. Best of all, though, we read aloud for hours on end. We took turns on the long stories and passed several books around so each of us could select another. This was no typical act of reading to the children, though their toddling son had many books, and during breaks we set him on this or that adults lap and read directly to him. No, we read aloud for ourselves, for the sheer pleasure of it.

The books we read from were new to me. One of them, This article appears in December 24 2007.