Small World

The book club was marvelous.

Envision a tiny 100-year-old cottage with uneven brick floors covered with wool rugs, kitschy decor and ingenious use of every imaginable space. The living room is a collection of eclectic furniture, art pieces and book shelves. Now, infuse the scene with a roaring fireplace, innumerable candles, and 18 gabbing women balancing Christmas china, sitting on rickety chairs, cushions, the wooden staircase and you're there. Our hostess was an energetic sprite in leggings, a wool tunic and Keen sandals, fiercely belying her almost 80 years. Did I say loud? Yes, she was loud. And loving. And great fun.

And in my conversations with Lou, another guest, I discovered that she is well acquainted with a couple from Muscatine who happened to be the parents of Emily's closest high school chum. We were amazed by the connection.  And I was relieved that several women played "Dirty Santa" and stole from each other the book I had brought for the gift exchange, conferring honor on it as a desirable offering. Gratifying. (Evidence Not Seen, by Darlene Deibler Rose)

The next night I attended the Nutro Christmas party where I struck up a conversation with a woman who had moved to Tennessee from Mattoon, IL.  I know one person, Jan, who lives there - we worked together at the Ames Tribune about 30 years ago. And again, I was flabbergasted to learn that the woman I was chatting with knew Jan well. In some small way, these little connections are weaving threads that reattach me to my moorings, relinking me to "known-ness." Wonderful.

And this weekend Bruce and I visited 3 churches. The good news is that we were effectively able to rule one out. I'm pretty sure my ears are still bleeding from the volume of the music from last one we visited. Fine teaching, but way loud. One down, 299 to go.