And yeah, sometimes we still forgot coasters. But Diane would just pick up the water ring, smile, and say, "Now the table has a story, too."

On Thursdays, she hosted "Couch Potato Cinema," but it wasn't what it sounded like. She’d project old kung-fu movies onto the garage door, turn the driveway into a picnic blanket maze, and make a cocktail she called "The Bruce Lee"—spicy watermelon juice with a kick of ginger beer. Neighbors would wander over in their bathrobes, and by midnight, someone would have dragged out a bongo drum.

Last month, she decided to learn the accordion. Not quietly, in a basement. She brought it to the farmer’s market, played a wobbly, tragic version of "La Vie en Rose," and collected seven dollars and a half-eaten empanada. "That’s a profit," she declared, wiping her mouth.

She thought about it. "Of the noise? Sometimes. Of the living? No." She nodded toward the window, where Phil was doing the hustle with a lampshade on his head. "You get one ride, kid. I’d rather be the one making the music than the one complaining about the volume."