Tom and Debra's Yearly Night Out

So last night we attended Tom's office Christmas party and fortunately it didn't require that we travel through a snowstorm down the wild, treacherous New York state thruway. You know, like last year.

No, this time the drive was serene, along the moonlit Niagara River even, to an old National Guard armory built in 1896. I used to drop off Naomi there to play youth basketball what seems like only a handful of years ago, but turns out to be 19. Oh dear, that Time character! He zips around too speedily for me.

Anyway, always I'd wanted to see inside that armory with its looming, dark-brick hugeness and its turrets and so my favorite part of the evening was the story we were given of its history.  After three wandering violinists finished, well, wandering, a young woman at the microphone told us early 1900's men used to practice their drills and maneuvers in that very room and suddenly I could see them! Even hear echoes of their marching boots from over a century away.

But crowds of people stood at the bar and talked loudly throughout the woman's whole presentation and I had to resist the urge to resent their rudeness. Sadly, some folks just don't get it and never will and slowly I'm learning to accept such truths. And move on to those who ask for my help.

A band performed while we ate dinner and we played the ol' Shouting To Be Heard Game with Tom's favorite co-worker and his sweet wife. A couple speeches were made, one by a man retiring after 33 years and I appreciated his thanking us spouses who stay behind when our loved ones travel. Really, that meant much.

Tom spoke with a ton of people, I shook many hands and nodded a lot, brushing up on my lip reading. When it became Tom-and-Debra-late, we visited some of the (blessedly quiet) rooms open to our group, ones like this:

And this:

Lots of photos were taken of us last night, but only one survived my picky deleting finger because it came out darkish and you can barely see us (just the way I like it):

But even so, I looked at it and thought, "Gah. We've certainly reaped what we have sown! Tomorrow we go on the Mediterranean Diet." 

And we are. Seriously. But never fear-- you won't hear the details here because I'm not a fan of blogs which talk about diets or clothes or hairstyles or other temporal things. No, I prefer deeper stuff which, I like to think, will always matter, even in Heaven.

Anyway, there you go--my annual report of our yearly night out. It was lovely, an appreciated change and yet, oh, how good to drive back home through the dark night over streets heavy with pleasant memories of fifteen years in that area. 

And how even more marvelous to pull into our own driveway and then return to the cats and warm, golden rooms of Hobbit Cottage.


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Waiting for Rachel