The welded seams of the new red arrow sign were still hot when people started to arrive.
Kay Tuttle's whimsical work stretched across the east wall; my weedeaters hung like cheeky sentinels along the west.
The gallery swelled with local artists, musicians, Marines, writers seeking respite from LA, a woman sporting a jaunty coat she sewed from a gold laminate tablecloth, and a jovial fellow in town for a workshop on shamanism. (Because shamans need workshops too.)
There was the coming together of a diverse group of friends, amazing food, great wine, and the selling of paintings. All of which make yours truly outrageously happy.
One of the highlights of the night? The husband pop-n-locking across the gallery floor in the vintage cowboy boots I peer-pressured him into buying against his better Yankee judgment. There is no greater joy than spending a life married to a man with sick dance moves. Especially when one's own moves have not evolved since the eighth grade sock hop.
And the icing on the cake was that my beautiful sister who flew down from San Francisco happened to match with my commie goat painting. The older we sisters get the more moments like this become bookmarks of happiness in these new chapters of adulthood.
THANK YOU to everyone who made the night so magical. Whether you were there or not, if you're reading this you probably had something to do with it. So thanks. You're the cat's pajamas.