There’s a broad street before the house, little traffic in the day, almost none at night. No streetlights, no sidewalk, just limestone ditches, yuccas and dry oak. For many years, one dream has been on a mild full-moon night around midnight to call the neighbors for a party.

There would be café tables dotting the street, everyone dressed in white--white nightgowns, white shirts--glowing in the dark. The conversation light, the breeze lifting the white fabric of the gowns, the moon so bright the asphalt a milky white against the blue-black sky. Everyone happy to be surprised, to be there on the hill on the street in the middle of the night.

The 3 violins always seemed farfetched--but maybe a small boombox with a minuet playing. A teapot on every table, glasses of ale. Laughter, the clink of glass, a very light breeze and oh the dancing.