As I drove up my gravel driveway, I looked toward the ridge. I stopped the truck. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. There was a tent. Not a little camping tent.Pickup Trucks
A massive, gleaming white marquee tent with peaked roofs and little flags snapping in the breeze. I put the truck in a park and left the engine running. I walked up the hill, the dry grass crunching under my boots.
The closer I got, the worse it became. There were 100 white folding chairs set up in perfect, symmetrical rows beneath the oak tree. There were floral arches wrapped in pink roses.
There was a portable dance floor being laid down by a crew of four guys in matching polo shirts. And standing right in the middle of it all, pointing and directing traffic, was Brenda.
She was wearing a beige pantsuit today, holding her trusty clipboard, shouting at a teenager carrying a stack of linen tablecloths. I walked right up to the edge of the dance floor.
