At the home of Jacqueline Richardson Baity on September 10, 1997
Luanne Samuel, Jacquie Richardson Baity, Wendy Robinson Kalitinsky, Eva Rosenbaum Schneider, Hélène Durand Balivet
Richard Bruland, Art Harris, Rose-Marie Lane Spruill, Cynthia Lee Hill Lake
Eva Rosenbaum Schneider, Cynthia Lee Hill Lake, Hélène Durand Balivet
Hélène Durand Balivet, Jacquie Richardson Baity, Art Harris, Richard Bruland
STaMonica: Thursday, 11 Sep., 97
Dear JR-
The French say that overeagerness to repay a debt of gratitude is itself a form of ingratitude--and who would know better about ingratitude?
But, I know that I am one of a group of people that owe you greatly for your hospitality in preparing and entertaining yesterday's reunion of ancients from Ecolint.
So, with some speed--and even eagerness--I want to tell you again how much I enjoyed the visit. Extraordinary experience of meeting a group of people one really does not know (though, technically, I know I must have met Helene and some of the others-perhaps including you) and to have so much in the way of common experience and friends.
Every conversation enjoyed made me a bit jealous of the others I missed (news, anecdotes, speculations). I wished I could have arrived earlier, stayed longer (and talked less and listened more). And eaten more. The food really was too good for a spread of middle-aged people. Especially those of us who are not keeping busy on the soccer fields.
As to the food packets you sent home with us, there was only a brief,delay at the Immigration Control, beyond Oceanside, as we tried to convince the inspectors that just two people could be planning to eat that much. The story was, on its face, unlikely; but Richard Bruland's face is an honest one, and when he explained we were planning to endow an orphanage in memory of Mother T. (was she Ecolint of 31?), the massive bulk of provisions was more credible, and the search for illegal migrants hidden in RB's car was eventually cancelled.
So, away home we sped, happy from the day we had spent, only a bit sad it was over.
And moderately apprehensive about the prospects of facing the scale after we (I) deal with the fact all those tons of comestibles are going to endow my appetites rather than those of a crowd of orphans.
Apart from everything else, you have the gift of breaking through to people so that a first meeting seems like an established friendship, filled with a web of longshared connections. I think it may be that you listen well and speak freely, so that awkward constraints do not get a chance to build. I do not think the reunion could have been quite as successful without the catalyst of your personality. Even if Norman S. would be miffed to hear you had said he was "butch".
And, next time we meet, perhaps you will be able to explain how a porcophile could have turned into A Lamb? Therein lies a secret key to riches in the kosher food trade. With warm thanks and good wishes,
[signed] Art Harris
P.S. (The night of the same day as the above.) Something most distressing has occurred. Not that I would complain, mind you. But, I have just spoken with Rich Bruland, and learn his wife has apportioned the bounties of your table to feed their family approximately through the end of this month. (There are only four of them, but the children are growing, and the dog, as I hear, is fairly large.) This is well and this is good. Yet, as I have peeked into my own refrigerator at various and random times this day, I have been unable to avoid noting that what I took to be a cornucopia seems somehow to have shrunk. As my memory is excellent, I do not like to think I've forgotten what you sent. To do so, after all, would be to traduce the memory of your generosity. Definitely infra the dig of a gent. Nor do I like to entertain the thought that you might have favored Richard with a greater boon than mine. Yet, there must be some explanation for this shrinkage. I fear it is necessary to face the facts: Young Master Bruland is a painter, after all. A Bohemian, though I mislike having to speak so blunt. Perhaps when my attention was distracted he purloined some of my viands. It would be only right if I went over to his house and reclaimed some of this palatable pillage. (Unfortunately, there is the matter of that fairly large dog. And children often have sharp teeth, too, as good Father Lear has lamented and warned.) If you did not live so inconveniently far away, I would simply stop by and pick up a refresher. Especially as memory reminds that you seem to have no inconvenient canine or kids in residence. (If you hear rustling noises in the kitchen some night soon, think only of the wind.) Well, this postscript grows long. As soon as I can lick the frosting off my fingers, I must put the letter into its envelope for tomorrow's post. (With thanks only a little bit less warm, and wishes quite as good as before.)