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Trying to wash a pair of demitasse cups while ruminating about summer. On a grand scale this summer’s disruption does not compare with other summers. The adrenaline did not rise to the level of Chicago and the 1968 Democratic National Convention, and the attention has not been as focused as it was in the summer of 1974 waiting for the inevitable resignation of Richard Nixon.

“No, it wasn’t as bad as the Watergate years,” I said with my outside voice.

“Ah, you’re old, Ms. Anne,” said Brutus Parker.

“Thanks, Brutus. Old beats—well, no need to insult anyone.”

And the weeks of summer moved steadfastly into fall. The coffee club moved from one city to another, from one site to another, and all the population relocated with the club. Our Punmeister began new work as pastor of a church and continues another writing project or two. Our barrista, who despises that word and prefers to be called “The Scourge of the Sourjaman,” deals with a new set-up. Despite the disruption, all our irregular friends continue to play backgammon and chess, talk politics and religion and nearly everything else, and drink Armenian coffee with loukoum on the side.

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