Mendoza meets Clotho in Saint Paul
Pretty tired. I should be walking; should be meditating; should be stretching; but I’m in the tub: pondering what just happened with the brunch at our house with the Grimaldi’s of Argentina.
To prepare, DOROTHEA and I went shopping yesterday and got food to make an egg bake and fruit salad and such.
Last night, we assembled an egg bake and put it in the fridge for the next day.
This morning, we cleaned house and made the rest of our preparations.
The gathering went well. Four people from Argentina and, including DOROTHEA, four of seven sisters. Pretty impressive, I thought. Plus, there were quite a few of the gringos with passable or better Spanish.
Last night we saw Blind Boy Patterson at a house concert in my former coworker’s basement, and it was really good. Mr. Patterson sang, played piano, guitar, banjo, fiddle, bones, and harmonica — some at the same time, some backwards and upside down. It was great; hes was a very good entertainer.
I’m now tubbing — seems like a reasonable refuge, and that’s it.