5:00 a.m.

It’s the time of year for gatherings and we have been to two in particular where the conversation was a feast. The first was at an artist’s studio where half a dozen of us had been invited to see some large works in progress, all of them meditations on the relationship between Jesus and his mother. Our talk was a journey, an “assay”—the word from which our more specifically literary term “essay” is derived—meaning a foray, a setting out in a search for understanding. None of us dominated—it was like a volleyball game in which personalities are subsumed in the common task of setting up the ball so it can be whacked over the net by whoever happens to be in the right position to do so  at the moment. Our volleys included the gospel of John, T.S. Eliot’s seminal essay, “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” Rothko’s colors, John Gardner’s On Moral Fiction, the mathematician Godel—but this is just what I happen to remember; there was lots more.

The second was at a graciously appointed home in Boxford—seven of us gathered around a table feasting on salmon, risotto, salad and conversation that ranged from Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Sheridan, WY, some years ago (her emissary asked if it would be possible to remove all rifles from all pickup-truck rifle-racks in Sheriden for the duration of her visit; it was simply not possible), to our various Myers-Briggs types (Beth and Mark are complete opposites; Beth gave an interesting answer to my question of what their mornings were like). We also talked about growing up with one or more alcoholic parents, and how it forms one’s understanding of “normal.” I said I had not known until I was an adult that the bathroom towel closet was not a “normal” place to keep the vodka. True enough, but on the way home I realized I’d left out the rest of the story, which is that following a car accident and textbook near-death experience in 1974 my mother sobered up and devoted much of the rest of her life to devising programs for recovering alcoholics. She passed away April 19, 2003, on Holy Saturday, which also happened to be her 75th birthday. Here’s to you, Mom.