Book Club

When I moved here, my aunt Margaret asked if I would like to join her book club. I was flattered and of course said I would love  to. It is the oldest book club in Wilmington, she told me, and as a member I would have certain expectations. Barring death or other calamities, I am expected to attend all meetings. I must have it at my house once a year, and on the day that I am hostess I am to give a book report. Along with other protocol, that is the way it is done. I have been flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants for the past oh so many years, but since my life has slowed down, I figured I could handle it. Today was my turn, the (underlined, red letter) day to have the ladies over. I had worked at almost perfecting a Black Forest(ish) cake and made the final version yesterday. I studied Van Gogh: The Life as if I were taking a final exam. I feverishly got the house clean and mess free this morning. Margaret, my co-hostess, arrived with her candy and nuts in good time, and we were ready for the guests when they arrived at 2:30 on the dot. The cutwork tablecloth, the silver service for coffee or tea, and the good china gave a look of class to the dining room table that usually holds whatever I happen to have dropped there from the store or art class. My book report could have been shorter, but for the most part I held the attention of the women with tales of Vincent's life. It was work, but it was good. It reminded me a little of what life used to be like, maybe about the time the Book Club was organized. Here is the cake, not fully unwrapped but still pretty enough.