Grace

Once in a while, the city remembers to show its love, in that magic way that only it can. Happily, it decided to do that on the day of our picnic. The forecasted thunderstorm did not materialize, the weather dawned sunny but crisp, and the picnic grounds were green and pleasant.

A local DJ decided to provide accompaniment of his own accord (presumably one of the city's overworked angels had sent him), and then passed a striped railroad cap.

We had all the right ingredients of a successful picnic: too much food, little people and big people, a bunch of lemonade and iced tea, a frisbee, a cute puppy dog, a neighborhood basketball game to watch, and lots of room to run around.

I'd ridden my practical bike, loaded with about a gazillion pounds of pasta salad, and brought my good camera. The Nikon had several friends there, all fancier models, but I still think I took the most pictures.

All the ladies got flowers to wear in their hair or wherever else they liked. There was a bit of sneaky wine and beer. There were a considerable number of homemade cookies. There was a beautiful bundt cake. I ate everything about four times over, and we later adjourned to the hosts' apartment for some after-picnic laughter and more wine.

I rode home in a cool breeze, jacket zipped up, taking it carefully since I'd had a bit of that Riesling.

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