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.