Pie in the Sky

I hope he's slurping oysters in the sky.

That semi-retired judge I'd met when I walked out on the sandbar, the one who was collecting oysters from his oyster beds in the Rappahannock behind my parents' house and gave me the Cliff's Notes version of his life while we stood in the river, the one who then directed me to a bushel basket under a nearby dock to help myself to two dozen freshly-caught oysters, just died.

It was one of the first things my parents told me when I arrived yesterday and I was truly sad to hear it. Many's the time since that first encounter that I'd gone down to the river to see if he was out in it collecting and always when he was, he'd wave and if I was willing to wade out, stop to chat with me.

I'd have gone down there yesterday to look for him if they hadn't showed me his obituary first.

Other than that, it was a beautiful day to be at the river, my purpose being to help Mom get ready for a bridge luncheon Wednesday, which involved things like cutting flowers for vases, sweeping the driveway and getting the big screened-in porch in tip-top shape for the "girls," all of whom are at least septuagenarians.

At that age, who's got the eyesight to notice a little cobweb action in the corner or a dead bug behind a chair? When I'm an old lady, I won't worry about any such things, I can assure you.

When I'm an old lady, I'll probably be less inclined to walk two miles in platform espadrilles (oh, the blisters this morning!) like I did last night, managing to hit Lapple - zero ambiance but solid Chinese food from Peter Chang proteges - and Ipanema - where on a trip to the loo I heard the kitchen inexplicably blasting  "Home on the Range" and "Que Sera, Sera" - for black and white cake ("But that's not pie!" the mutton-chopped manager said in surprise at my choice) and wine before making it to Balliceaux for music.

It was good to see so many people out for a show on a Monday night - the global DJ, the newsman, the guitarist, the Bijou crew, the former neighbor - even if it did make for a slightly airless room until the air conditioning kicked on to save us all.

My bell bottoms elicited both shock and advice, with three different guy friends asking me why I would ever intentionally cover up my assets. "I've spent plenty of time thinking about those legs," one shared. "I'd rather see 'em," another informed me, effectively voting down any future pants-wearing.

For the record, a friend long ago informed me that my legs are not my greatest asset, but he wasn't around to make a case for what was, either.

After Gary Kalar opened the show with his Ottoman empire music, Yeni Nostalji took the stage for what was being billed as guitarist Evrim's last show. Hardly a surprise since baking and music-making are hardly compatible past times.

Referencing the last Balliceaux show when Evrim's capo went missing, he joked that he'd stashed six of them around the room with different friends so as to ward off a possible capo emergency again.  I like a man who learns from his mistakes.

But, my god, they're so hard to find.