Sitting in my big pink chair, reading “Aunt Dimity Down Under” by Nancy Atherton, I heard a voice in the driveway, “does anyone have a bicycle pump?”. I stepped outside, because I have one. A middle-aged women, slightly built, with short, straight, dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail presented herself. An impressive number of long, gray hairs sprouted from her chin, and she spoke with a Hungarian accent. A dusty roadbike lay in the backseat of her car. It had one very flat tire which we inflated with my pump. The other tire seemed pretty squishy too, but she insisted she liked it that way. She was kind and grateful, and surprised that I hadn’t ever heard of Jack Cornfield (or had I?), and that I had never been to the meditation center near my house. She said I seemed the type because I was so nice and because I wasn’t wearing makeup. She started to get back into her car to leave when she popped back out and asked if I liked lemon meringue pie. Yes. She opened the trunk of her car and motioned for me to bring a plate and a serving utensil. She gave me a huge piece of the pie, and offered some cooked chicken drumsticks, which were also in the trunk. Pie, yes, chicken, no thanks, just had some. And then she was gone.
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