Jerry's son, David, arrived from Texas this morning on an early flight. I met him when he was 14 years old, and he is now nearly 50. The boy who broke everything he looked at and tried to jump a bicycle over a row of lined-up ice chests (result: broken collarbone) now has hair graying at the temples and a pair of half-glasses so he can read. We're getting awfully old over here.
There's a peach pie downstairs for tonight's dessert, plus fresh corn on the cob, strawberries, and tiny, tender French green beans. Killing the fatted calf.
The weather is perfect, and if the fog holds back, we can eat outside. The hedge fund manager who's been in England for a year has returned to the house behind us, and I can hear the thump of a basketball as he and his son make shots.
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