I hosted my book group yesterday afternoon for the first time in nearly five years. My husband and AJ repaired to my mother-in-law�s for the day, leaving around 11, so as not to miss the noon Bears kick-off. This left me with a house to myself � a rarity.

After I�d waved goodbye to the boys, I ran to the shelves and pulled out CDs that I never play because I know my husband doesn�t much care for the music. I don�t censor everything I like that he doesn�t � some things I think he should learn to like. But a lot of the things I like to play involve accordions and bagpipes and I don�t think anyone should have to listen to accordions or bagpipes unless it is by choice or he is being punished for something.

So I spent most of the day puttering around the house, cooking, cleaning and listening to Loreena McKennitt, Ad vielle que pourra and Ry Cooder and Ali Farka Toure. It was lovely.

My guests arrived by train in the late afternoon. We drank mock mojitos improvised with vodka instead of rum and talked about the book and other things.

We read Carson McCullers� The Member of the Wedding. It was, quite simply, one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. There is not a false note, not an extra word. And McCullers captures that moment of being a child and adult at once so cannily and so unlike anything else I�ve ever read. We all loved it so much that we elected to read another McCullers novel for next time -- The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I can�t believe I�ve never read any of her books before and it�s such a pleasure to discover them now.

The evening was warm and breezy. We sat on the porch and ate and talked and listened to the rising sounds of the crickets outside. After I drove my guests to the train, I came home and put on a CD of Astrud Gilberto singing Jobim songs and began to wash the dishes. I always like clearing up after a party. Although it seemed strange to be alone � usually this is when my husband and I rehash the evening�s events. But it was nice, too, to be able to let my mind wander over the music and past conversation, to the big round moon rising outside the window and the sounds of children being called in from the yard next door for bed.

The boys returned shortly, with AJ half asleep. He was soon in bed.
After the work was done, I turned on Cassandra Wilson�s New Moon Daughter � a perfect end of day CD, because it sounds like it�s melting or heard throught he aural equivalent of bottle glass, strangely refracted � switched on the lamp on the porch, and curled up in a chair with the Sunday crossword puzzle, accompanied by jazz and crickets. In the distance, in the pauses between songs on the CD, I could the sound of a distant piano � someone practicing a Schubert Moment Musicale. Gradually all the music wound to a halt. When I heard nothing but crickets, it was time for bed.

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