Festival of Randomness

I am taking the shocking liberty of grabbing this awesome write-up of our evening from an e-mail of Alix's, who gave Michelle an update of what she missed:

"Last night I managed to steer conversation into the realm of Christian sex manuals--which inevitably led to the gutter and a change of subject . Of course, in our case, it was purely theoretical. We missed you terribly! Kathleen made a fabulous dinner, everyone was in rare form, and much hilarity ensued from Andrew asking us all to recount the story of our worst gift ever. There were some great entries into the contest: Kathleen receiving a powder blue velour warm up suit from Phil for her birthday; Jan's family's annual Christmas exchange of scotch and nightgowns; but Tim beat us all with the periodic boxes he receives from his addled, OCD father containing 3-year-old cat fancy magazines, pamphlets from the Sioux Falls Tourist bureau, copies of the 1922 Who's Who in Science, etc.--all, apparently, part of Tim's legacy, the majority of which sits in boxes piled floor to ceiling in his parents' basement... He promises to bring the next box unopened to Tupper Supper so we can all enjoy it together ."

Week of April 7

Just a quick reminder that this week tupper supper is at Kathleen's apartment.

I will be walking to her place from downtown, but would love a ride back to the north end, if anyone is going that way!

Kathleen, let us know what you want us to bring!

Jan

On Auctions

Last night we dined at Sally's house. I don't know if you feel this way, but for me, there is something especially nourishing to the soul about being in a house where art is everywhere: stacked against the hallway walls, propped up by bookshelves, leaping to the eye from every nook and cranny.

Sal's house is like that, and I really love being there. Thank you, Sal, for providing a beautiful, convivial environment, and also for delicious beany goodness!

We served ourselves the fabulous Alix salad with salad tongs from Sal's childhood, lit by candles in beautiful perfect Art Nouveau candlesticks, silver and engraved with swirling vines and flowers. They could have lit the tables of Rivendell.

The women wolfed down the cabbage before the men made it to the table. Sorry, men!

We all mourned the loss of Indie (see previous post), 13-year companion of Craig. Craig noticed that tupper supper is the only place he didn't always have her with him, so there was a bit of relief from the sense of always wondering where she was, and then remembering.

Somehow, our talk turned to auctions. Highlights I remember -- and please, add your own! -- include:

• The Gage Auction last weekend brought in $90,000 gross -- yay Craig! Though it was an oddly lackluster auction, for reasons impossible to determine. Auctioning experiences instead of material things, we decided, is highly problematic.
  
• We learned of Karen, a Development Manager at Michelle's agency who didn't actually do anything, but who referred a Bothell City Councilmember to the "I see dead people" counselor.
• We remembered Andrew's turn as Wilfred Owen at an RHH auction, when he furiously outbid himself.
• We counted the number of board and staff hours required to put on any sort of auction at all
• We spoke of alternatives to auctions -- suggesting that members pay the agency NOT to have an auction. Or, perhaps, a white elephant exchange -- the agency takes unwanted objects from members -- for a price.

In other news, Sally had not yet heard back about Mark's interview with FW DeKlerk, which sounded fascinating, but promises to share highlights eventually. Kathleen spent the morning watching a heron defend his nest from all challengers. Alix was suffering from post-event exhaustion and really just wanted to put a blanket over her head and go to sleep.

Blessings, all,

Jan

In memorium: Indiana

The House Dog's Grave

I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you,
If you dream a moment,
You see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your bed; no,
All the nights through I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read‚
And I fear often grieving for me‚
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
To think of you ever dying.
A little dog would get tired, living so long.
I hope that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.

No, dears, that's too much hope:
You are not so well cared for as I have been,
And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided ...
But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.

› Robinson Jeffers

Ah ha!!!

I finally figured out how to post! I am so hopeless at this, but I hope to do better.

I wanted to thank Sal for just the greatest dinner! How lovely it was to be in your sweet home.

The Garlic sauce is our flagship foodstuff from now on. Let's put some away in the bomb shelter!

And big thanks to Jan for keeping our blog underway. Now that I have finally figured it out, I promise to contribute most happily as well.

Love to all, and special love to Craig,
Michellebot