Could there be anything better than a few good friends getting together on a semi-regular basis for food and conversation at each other’s houses?

Yesterday, on a beautiful, cold, fall day, we gathered at Valerie’s for tiny quiches and hard cider in the living room to start .  Then on to the dining room for crab and avocado salad, curried pumpkin soup, angel biscuits, and tarte tatin.  There was whipped cream to go on this last, but I put mine on my coffee.

You would think that nothing could top this, but our conversation did.  We talked about the recent election; a spacecraft landing on a comet 3 million miles away; a new art studio; music; math; diagramming sentences; bird-watching, including ducks and lame ducks; Mollie Katzen; civics; baby bumps; weddings.  I can’t even remember it all.

Too soon, (Well, it was about four hours later.) Georgienne, the only un-retired member of our group, had to leave for a rehearsal, and I had to attend a committee meeting at St. P’s around the corner. And poor Henny had been complaining for a while that her walk in the park across the street was long past due, so we adjourned.

You can see how high-strung Henny is:

Bruce popped in to tell us about the spacecraft/comet connection and we recruited him for a bit of documentation.

Last summer, the newest installation in the Capital Mall, the World War II Memorial, was unveiled. On a recent walk, I snapped a few pictures.

All the Oregon vets are listed on that wall.

The obelisk is surrounded by an inlaid map in the pavement. I took this picture of the South Pacific area where my daddy served.

Of course, I never really get it about war.

On a much lighter note, I also do not get it about combat fatigues being the only uniforms soldiers seem to have these days.  I miss real uniforms.  You can see why.

Very handsome.  And I’m pretty sure this is the first photo that was ever taken of me, hiding safely under Mother’s arm.  Anyone know who that sweet little boy is in the background?

Here he is on leave in March, 1943.  They let him come home to meet me before shipping him out.

And, apparently, that happened immediately.  He wrote on the back of this posed, touristy shot “Honolulu, May 1943.”

Not sure when or where this is, but I love it.

Love you too, Daddy.  Thanks.

I am un-friending everyone, literally, who is a grumbler, always pointing out things one considers to be wrong with the world or who always talks about one’s aches and pains.  Didn’t your mother ever tell you, “If you don’t have something nice to say, keep your mouth shut.”?  All this name-calling, labeling, blaming is more than just not nice.  It’s actually unscriptural.  And isn’t it ironic that so many of the grumblers are often the scripture-quoters?

I love this particular translation of Philippians 4:8 :

Whatever is just, whatever is true, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

And talk about them too, for heaven’s sake!

Everyone knows how much I love trees. Yesterday, on the South Santiam up past Foster Reservoir, I came upon a giant fir that had crashed into the river very recently.  It was beautiful, but I could see that its heart had rotted away.  I know it’s crazy, but I paddled up very close to it and blessed it and thanked it for all the oxygen it had given back to us in the  hundred years or so it had been on the job.  It smelled so good.

I generally remark on my huge liquid amber

and my little gingko when they are showing off.

But, for some reason, I have neglected my brilliant Japanese maple. Clearly it deserves to be recognized.

Once a month, I have a cleaning crew that blows through 1880 and bails me out of squalor.     They do a fine job and I have no complaints.  I do, however, wonder why they do this.  Seriously, what’s the point?  (Forgive the pun.)  It makes me feel like I’m living in a cheap motel.