There Will Be Beer

Today was in the upper 60s with cool breezes and generous sunshine. Because of this the city is full of grateful Chicagoans. Dogs and strollers were dusted off and put to good use, shorts could be spotted on just about everyone brave enough to display their fallow skin, whitened over the long winter months the way lichen dies during the winter, myself included, children sought pennies and lollipops with an extra bit of delight on their soot covered faces, and women, freed from the bondage of historical oppression displayed their arms and upper chests, delighting onlookers and passersby alike. The Cubs won. It's sandal season.

Although I don't wear sandals. Never have. Not as an adult at least. Just haven't been able to make the transition from sneakers. I think I enjoy too much the thrill of finding a pair of socks so small that they virtually disappear beneath the rim of my shoe. Ankle socks, amateurs call them.
Carwashes and flowers are in full bloom and will be for many months. One tree I had the pleasure of glimpsing was a twenty foot bouquet of white flowers, each a circle of five rounded petals, like propellers, a cloud of white stunt planes emerging from the center in all directions.

And now, I shower, in preparation to eat a friend's lasagna at her lasagna party. There will be beer and wine and laughs and probably peanuts.