Rotting Peaches?

Last night I got together with a handful of girls for a lovely dinner on Julia's roof-deck. Julia and her husband live in Lincoln Park, so the view from up there is fantastic—brownstone roofs in the foreground, with the Chicago skyline at night in the back. The planters were overflowing with blooms and the music drifted at just the right volume from the surround sound speakers, providing the perfect backdrop to our girls night conversations.

We settled around the patio table with dinner of grilled steak and shrimp kabobs, fresh summer salads and sparkling rose wine, and finished with a homemade peach pie a la mode (yes, she's an incredible hostess), it was nothing short of fantastic. Catching up with these girls is only a quarterly occasion, if that, as most of them are married with children, and schedules are just hectic.

We recalled fond memories of other gatherings, some to watch the UGA football games (as most of the group are alum) and others to celebrate a new baby or a marriage proposal. Basically, we're a group of Georgia Peaches who are a long way from home.

One evening in particular was mentioned, from about 2 years ago, as someone remembered there being a few "new" girls there that time, but not one of us could really place it. It was a chorus of, "Oh, yeah. Who were they?" and "I think I was here?" and "Was it here at Julia's? Or someone else's house?" as we tried to piece together the story, and recall when/where/who the new girls were. And how they fit in.

While mocking ourselves for being old and already losing our memory, one girl said, "What are we, 80?" and we all laughed. And then sighed in unison, because it is already happening. Details are slipping, events are blurry and memories are clouded. When did this happen? Is it age? Are we too selfish to remember something that was just on the periphery of our life, rather than central to its plot?

Tangent: My mother swears that as she crept (delicately, and of course recently) towards "middle age," she started losing these types of details. She is so good with directions and recalling past clients, but sometimes a name or a word will just slip her mind. Ironically, though, she can almost always, without fail, recall the first letter.

As in, "I have no idea where I know that woman from, but I know her name starts with an M." Or something like that. Her biggest fear is that this will continue, and worsen, as she continues to age. She's terrified that one day she'll walk into a cocktail party at the neighborhood clubhouse and say, "Hi, My name is E. And this is my husband, R."

When she told this story we were all in fits of giggles just picturing it. And acting it out. Wine may or may not have been involved.

Back to the story at hand.

No matter what's to blame, be it nature, time, environment or the alcohol served at the party, we never could recall those women. And, it was a funny realization. Especially when Darby inquired, while scrunching up her brows and thinking hard, "Was that the time that I brought Leroy (aka Leroy Brown, her bulldog) over as a puppy?"

We all thought hard, nodded uncertainly, and honestly, didn't know for sure. The entire memory/lack thereof was punctuated most profoundly when Stephanie piped in with, "Oh! I remember that night! I brought my ham dip."

And, there you have it.

We don't remember the two lovely young women that had joined us for an entire evening's game watching festivities, but we remembered the ham dip.

I couldn't help but chant Leroy and Ham Dip all the way home. It sounded like a dirty joke in the making, or an alternative country band at the very least.

Admit it: right now you have "Bad, bad Leroy Brown. The baddest man in the whole damn town. Badder than old King Kong. And meaner than a junkyard dog." rattling around in your head. No? Well, now you do.