Monday, supper
Many of us ate supper at the Daily Grind Coffeehouse in downtown Marshall, enough of us that the place was full and swarming and the staff was strained trying to get from one side of the room to the other and the cook was strained trying to get suppers out to the tables as fast as the orders kept coming in. Yet the music was lovely and no one seemed to mind that they might have had to wait a few minutes longer than usual for their pork tenderloin with a sauce of fall fruits and roasted root vegetables on the side. Including beets. Which were good. I can't believe I'm saying that: "The beets were good." I do not usually eat beets. I ate them all.
Ross Sutter was singing to us. Acapella or with guitar or bodhran. Ballads and the songs of Robert Burns. What a lovely voice. Sometimes we were singing with him in our own homely voices, those of us who have homely voices, and some lovely ones too.
There was harmony in many parts and it all passed too quickly, as good things are wont to do. We left, and then the staff could clear the tables and wash the dishes and wonder just what a bunch of writers we'd been, eating and singing and carrying on.
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