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Ah, yes, I remember the event as if it happened only yesterday, how we fondly danced naked in the garden among the vegetables, my Betsy-Lou and I, our pale buttocks swinging back and forth amicably like jello in the hazy moonlight as the fog drifted in from the bay, our panting breath sounding in rhythm to the foghorn that bellowed pleasingly in the field next to our little house, while Georgette, our pet poodle, yipped frantically about the garden, her sharp little teeth and high-pitched yelps seemingly in concert with the ribald noises that floated in from the tavern across the bay as we continued to dance naked, our 96 year-old bodies sagging in the most inappropriate places as we cavorted amongst the carrots and beets, the tomatoes and turnips, our arms moving with unaccustomed alacrity and uncommon glee until, at last, Betsy-Lou tripped and fell into a hedge full of turnips, but was unhurt, as she beckoned to me with a cackle of joyful playfulness and open arms to come join her, and I did.
Don
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