Quality, Not Quantity

Last night on the porch was fabulous. We were small, but mighty. It was one of those crystalline evenings - clear and dry, a welcome change from the dank and dreary June and July we suffered through - and there was August magic in the air. Several old friends randomly stopped by, and the buzz of the impending meteor shower, the Harley Ride to the Rock, the president's visit, along with the upcoming week that features Illumination Night, the annual fair, and the fireworks was palpable. Plus, everyone was just plain in a good mood because it was such a pleasant evening. Even strangers were smiling and stopping to talk. The best part of the night, though - hands down - was when, during some tune or other Jon and I were wailing away at, a dude runs up onto the porch, grabs the spare banjo out of its stand and plays along with us as if we've all known each other all our lives. Then, just as quickly, before the tune had even ended, he was gone, hopping into the car he had left idling on the street, abandoned so's he could play with us, albeit briefly. Oh yeah, a magical night. I never did see those meteor showers, though. Oh well, there's always next year.