There was a Cardinal at the feeder today. He even tolerated sharing with a finch. Cardinals do not share gladly.
As a reward for battling the leaves (which don't even come from my own tree; they come from the neighbor's tree) I went downstairs and sewed up the first of the red plaid flannel dresses I cut out yesterday. I like the way it turned out and am anxious to see how the opposite one looks. That'll have to wait until I get home from visiting DD and family next week.
03 November--Barbara Malcolm, Spies Don't Retire.
In the last few years Billie
Holland-Smythe’s Queen’s Birthday Party had become the de-facto start of the
island social season among the small expatriate community. The introduction of Major George Clemment and
Colonel Dimitri Roskova was the shocking pinnacle of that year’s party. Not much else was talked about over fences
and in the shops when friends met for at least a week. Those who had witnessed it enjoyed a measure
of celebrity among those who were either unable to attend or uninvited. Everyone knew that Billie carefully chose her
guest list, being on it conferred a sort of cachet and being passed over
spurred many a woman to examine her social skills and rethink friendships in
hopes that her name would be included the following year. Billie’s party launched a months-long series
of parties and barbecues that defined the cooler, winter months’ social whirl
on the island.
Certain of these parties were long
running and eagerly anticipated by those who had lived there the longest. Miriam Wilson and Jane Carey, retired
teachers from Boston, hosted a beach party that was legendary. They had an entire pig shipped to the island
that they roasted in a specially built pit on their property bordering the
rocky beach on the south end of the island.
From some secret place they obtained sweet corn on the cob that was
roasted over open coals. They also hired
a steel drum band to play long into the night while their guests drank
endlessly flowing rum drinks. Miriam and
Jane always danced the limbo after midnight to everyone’s delight. They were amazingly flexible for a couple of
old broads.
Mason James was the traditional
host of the winter exhibition-opening gala at his Cinnamon Gallery. He was a patron of the arts who specialized
in works by primitive and local artists.
His parties started with wine and hors d’oeuvres in the gallery, and
then moved to his hilltop home for a traditional Caribbean feast with curried
goat, yams, and platters of grilled lobster and other fresh-caught seafood
delicacies.
At each of these parties, and many
more throughout the months of that winter, a sort of division grew in the
expatriate community, supporters and friends of Irina on one side, those loyal
to Sonia on the other.
That's really all I did today. I spent a couple hours on the couch feeling sorry for myself but I don't count that as an accomplishment of the day. We've had intermittent sunshine these last days and it just isn't enough for me. Did you remember to turn your clocks back last night? I forgot until this morning so instead of feeling glad that I managed to sleep until after 7 o'clock I got up a little after 6am. *sigh*
--Barbara
1 comment:
What is it with this time of year? Messing around with the clocks? The coming winter? All those leaves? For whatever reason, we've got a bad case of the botts!! I've been in a deep funk ever since my email gave up the ghost and then Instagram quit on me. Somehow those two events had me close to tears myself. My morning routine of checking in on Barbara's own personal world via cyberspace has been upset and I don't like it one little bit! So I sympathize with you big time. Keep your trip and that darling Kentucky family uppermost in your mind and know good days are a'comin'!
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