According to WordPress, I started writing this post three months ago.
<embarrassed emoji face>
Sister, Brother T and I went to church one Sunday morning three months ago, and followed it up with a visit to a Colonial-Era Inn which has been running continuously since the year seventeen-hundred-something.
It’s old. It smells like the combined wood fires of three centuries. Hamilton and Burr had a heated argument in the tavern. George Washington stopped here. The troops paraded and drilled in the yard. The ceilings are low, the air smells historic, and the food is good!
These two looking at each other. She’s like, “George, can you believe these people? With their selfies and their coffees and their casual attitude towards lace fichus and petticoats?” And he’s like, “I wish Martha were here. She gets me.”
I have a sneaking suspicion that when I started writing this post three months ago, I actually had something to say. Maybe it was, “Thanks Mom for treating us to this brunch!” or maybe it was something insightful about war and pewter and clam chowder. Whatever it was, it is lost to the sands of time and also my memory is bad.