The rain has not deterred the fireworks.  The rain, by the way, is sizzling in the palm trees outside the Ernest Hemingway room; the rest of the house is open to it.  Smells heavenly in here.  Outside the back porch in the sky, skyrockets are exploding in intervals; crystal white lights that burst, then seem to foam and disappear; red, green and the sound of cherry bombs going off…I’m remembering those two ducks who got so scared and flew off indignantly quacking in the dark last year.  I’m tired in a good way, not ready for sleep, think I’m ready to have a glass of something, but saving it mainly to uncork the bottle of bubbly that’s been chilling in the fridge this morning at midnight.  What is it that’s on that telegram Robert Mitchum sends Janet Leigh in, “Holiday Affair?”  “Will be drinking to you New Years Eve on the Midnight Special!”

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