I forget things.  It’s not age.  I’ve always been this way.   While my head is in the clouds, pondering things like the influence of 16th century urban planning in Italy on modern strip malls in New England and vice versa, I sometimes don’t remember that I was actually supposed to call the plumber.  Last week was no exception.  I forgot to lunch with a delightful friend, and I forgot to send a piece I had written to coincide with Edith Wharton’s birthday to New York Social Diary.  Fortunately, DPC is a most generous and forgiving host, and has published my belated birthday card today.  That piece can be read by clicking HERE.
Edith Wharton strolled here:  The Shore Path at Bar Harbor, near the cottage of her brother Frederic Newbold Jones.
As to the delightful friend who was stood up, she too claims to have forgiven me, but has extracted her revenge by putting me up for auction for benefit of her local library. At the moment, with 11 days to go, I at $83.00.   (I should have sent flowers)
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