I celebrate at the drop of a hat.  The first of anything; the last of something.  A foggy day that will not burn off.  The scent of something I can’t quite identify.  A flower in bloom, a blade of grass coming up out of the cement.  An old man striding down the street in new suit.  The dinner partner searching for the right word.  The odd feel of something, or someone.  Close, or distant.  Which is why I love champagne.  It’s the switch that turns everything on.  An expectation begins. And so you put on the prettiest dress, you linger with the mascara, you marvel at the bubbles, you acknowledge happiness even as it dissipates.

The glass is all-important.  Which is why I’m always searching for new flutes, for better fish tanks in which to see the bubbles, to see the rising, to hear the proper clink.  The sound has to be strong, not fragile.  Bad luck otherwise. The other day I found some very fine, hand-made glasses by Henry Dean at Gardner. It’s one of my favorite stores.  Highly recommend.  The glasses stood on a table just waiting for me to take them home.

And now I’ve used them, had them as it were, and what strikes me is the way in which they magnify the sparkle, draw me into their lightness. Salut to good life.