You should be here. This is great. You're really an old crock whose hands were flash frozen thirty years ago and it might just be that a meander of the sun, the stars, the planets, and the earth is about to align right here over the Chesapeake. Don't miss it? I'd get up early if I were you. I can't believe you would miss it unless maybe you have a discipline problem.

A moment ago we had crab cakes. Lydia cooked them up. Did you see the sunset when you came in? No? I can't believe you didn't see it. The sky was huge and dark; curved; with wisps of light, just the way you like it. After the sun finally went down, Lydia and I sat on the stoop and watched an electric, vital blue just over the western horizon. You hardly ever get to see a blue like that. Lydia, me, Jack---did I tell you he was there?--watched it together. Jack took me by my legs and tumbled me over and over until I burst out laughing; then he took Lydia and placed her on top of me, and I laughed and laughed until I thought I would burst; and then--get this--Jack piled on top and rolled over the two of us like a steam-roller. We couldn't stop laughing.

Are you comfortable? Can I get you something? Sure? Can I ask you a question? How come you weren't there? Were you taking some kind of examination or something? So anyway, we got up. I don't know if you've seen the way Lydia looks in the new dress I bought her. It hangs on her so nicely. She stood up, and I watched the dress hang. I don't know if we missed you or not. Later on we thought, "she missed us," but that is different. Then, the little boys and girls of the neighborhood came by. We wanted to remember to tell you about that. The oldest, the cute one who is called Bermuda, brought a lizard to Lydia. That's what made her think to cook up the crab cakes. When she brought out the steaming mess of crab cakes, she put her hands on her hips and let the steam make her perspire--little drops running down her neck and even onto her breasts. "I wouldn't care to know anyone who isn't here with us," she said defiantly. You should have been there. But I've said that.

How could you have done it? With all your potential? You weren't here when we had the intelligent debate about Vietnam. You skipped; you missed the moment, and don't pretend you didn't.

But I'm ahead of myself. Where was I? Well, after having had such a wonderful time on the stoop, we walked down Dock Street. The lights were just beginning to come on. Suddenly we heard Peer Gynt Suite 1, Morning Mood. It was the Moon. An acre of pleasure spread out before our hungry eyes--room after room! pot roast, pickles you can't get anymore, delicious pops, and hot dogs from Tidewater farms like "Acrewood," "King's Forty," "Underlea," "Scrivesden," and "Rose Hall"--the last miraculously raised from its ashes.The best part was that the music was being reborn in the back room. Maybe you heard about that--how suddenly a little white boy added a note to Morning Mood at the Moon in such a way that the audience was reduced to utter respectful silence , at which point white men and women, each one an expert in the development of bebop, clasped hands while tears streamed down their faces. You had to see it. Why didn't you see it? Were you in detention or what?

Then Jack brought the novel out of its doldrums of postmodern irrelevancy. Somehow, with that wonderful natural spontaneity of his, he was able to capture what I was saying and cast it in novelistic terms. I was so enthralled with the rebirth of Morning Mood that I must have communicated to him some quintessential American energy, which, together with his work in linguistics and his deep sympathy for Hispanics and women, came together to produce an American free-form prose that promises to enrich all our work. Whew. It took my breath away to hear it.

Then we walked out along the pier. The watermen who go out in their boats just as they have for centuries raised a cheer: "Hurrah for the creators of a new American Civilization!" they cried. The head man or person of the watermen came out and explained that it is the custom--indeed, the stated purpose and goal--of the watermen to be willing to die for the right to save the best crab for their sweethearts. Then, in a very tender way they explained that we were their sweethearts, and they gave us all the crab cakes. I erected an impromptu brazier, and Lydia grilled them up. I gave Lydia a little kiss, and Lydia gave Jack a big hearty sloppy one, and we all three settled down to eat this crab of incomparable delicacy, which Lydia had in her pocket.

Then we told stories about you. How you didn't get a National Merit Scholarship. (Remember how easy they were to get?) And how you missed seeing the Tall Ships. I mean, everybody saw the Tall Ships. I know people who were sick beyond endurance with seeing the Tall Ships by accident--just running into the sight of them out a window or something--and apparently you never saw them once. And how about all those things you said you saw when we weren't with you, like the Liberation of Paris, and the '88 super bowl, and Miles Davis when he was under contract to that bistro in olde towne?

Lydia told a long story about taking a bicycle trip with you on the beach and stopping in an out-of-the-way restaurant that looked just perfect and all they had was toast. "How do you make it?" you asked. The man said nothing. "How much is it?" you asked. By the way, the man turned out to be a great artist, and the sketches Lydia bought that day are worth a small fortune now. I wonder why you had to ask that. You made the man so sad. Lydia liked him right away and made friends, or so she says.

Happy you're here now. Could I borrow about one hundred years? We could have some corned beef, but that guy over there got the last serving.