book club at my house

I joined a book club in the summer of 2004.  It was, and is, a group of smart woman, whose common bond is the elementary school our kids all attended.

In the years since I’ve joined, a few woman have dropped out, and three people have been added.  We are now a group of ten.  It’s an impressive group by any standard.  We are lawyers, professors, artists, web experts, social workers and bankers.  One even manages her three sons’ emerging rock band.  We are married, divorced, and single.  We have big apartments and small ones.  We live uptown and downtown.  We have supported each other through marriage break-ups, illnesses, new homes, aging parents, job losses and gains.  We have watched our kids develop from elementary school to college and beyond.  We have shared heartaches and joys.  I think the books we read are really an excuse for getting together.

We meet every four to six weeks.  Tonight I am hosting.

I think I have many skills, but entertaining is not one of them.  I get nervous.  I don’t know what to serve.  I always over order as I would rather have too much than too little.  I am afraid people won’t have a good time.  I worry they will leave too early.  I am definitely not a natural born hostess. 

People start arriving about 7:30.  I bring out my camera and sneak a few pictures.

Betsy, Pennelope, and Andrea

with Melanie and Kathleen

with Pennelope and Andrea

The book we are discussing is a collection of short stories by Alice Munro, Dear Life. The general consensus, like so many of the books we read, is underwhelming. These fourteen short stories are given about fifteen minutes of discussion. The rest of the evening is about plays we’ve seen, books’ we’ve loved, current events, local politics, personal issues, kid worries, and careers.  It’s a lively, entertaining evening.

While I still have little confidence in my hosting talents, I am grateful to my guests for making the night a good one.  And, for staying so late.