Dearest Gentle Reader,
This Author has, at the kind invitation of one Mr. Christopher Hewitt of Basalt, taken up residence in the Society he has founded — a small parlor in the high western hills, where the river rises off the snowmelt and the gossip rises off the patio at the Riverside Grill. We shall begin gently, as all good Seasons do, with the noting of who has arrived, who has been observed, and who has lingered.
The Widow Carrington, much beloved on these pages already, has issued a standing invitation to discuss four novels in any of four directions on a Tuesday evening, the strongest drink being tea. This Author endorses the pace and the libation. A reading slump is, after all, but a temporary indisposition, cured by the right book and the right porch.
Mrs. Margaret Ashworth reports the lupines along the river path are violent in their colour, which is the kind of botanical intelligence this Author has come to expect from a member of fine taste — and a good morning eye. One walks, one observes, one returns improved. It is the entire science of the well-spent hour.
And a Whisper, if Reader will permit a Whisper. Saturdays at the Basalt farmer's market have, of late, taken on a particular weather. A certain bread, a certain stall, a certain regard. This Author shall say no more — for to say more would be to spoil what has been the loveliest use of an unsold sourdough this Author has ever heard tell of.
Until next Sunday, dearest Reader. Take care of one another, and of your own faces in the Saturday light.