Together on The Block

Tangled brown tresses tumble from the blond woman’s rolling bag.  A wig, I figure, but a closer look reveals a head.  A mannequin’s head, mind you, but with its lifelike face and all that hair, it is…well, unnerving. 

“Traveling with a head?”  I comment.

The woman glances down at her bag and laughs.  “Yeah.  I have a wedding tomorrow.”

Oh.  That explains it. 

My husband, Dave, is parking the car while I wait with our friend Joanie - plus Dave’s guitar, our backpacks, a cooler, and bikes - for the ferry to Block Island.  It is September, and as we have for years, we are meeting dear friends for our annual gathering.

The drive from home to the ferry, as always, was tricky.  As a rule, on this weekend, Dave leaves work in Greenwich around 3:00 PM.  He then sits, stews, and grumbles in traffic while Joanie and I pace, anxiously glancing at the clock, waiting for him to pull in at home to pick us up.  When he arrives, he unfolds himself gingerly from his seat, adjusts his back, and walks as briskly as possible to the house.

We girls strive to be upbeat, feigning calm, once Dave sets to work hefting the bikes on top of the car and strapping them in as the minutes pass.  Joanie, ever optimistic, gives a “Whoo-Hoo! We’re off!” kind of cheer as we plunge back into the sluggish current of Friday afternoon traffic.  Under ideal conditions, it’s two hours and fifteen minutes to the dock in Point Judith, our preferred place of departure.  The last ferry of the day chugs out at 7:00 PM. 

We all love Point Judith, but for Dave, it’s an integral part of this Block Island weekend.  After the frenzied ride, he likes to browse at the sweatshirt shop, then stop in next door to pick up a steamy cup of Rhode Island clam chowder, with it’s salty gray broth and potatoes, no cream.  Around the docks, the stench of fish and motor oil pervades.  Gulls cry as they dart and wheel around hoary fishing boats bristling with lines and rigging. Engines grind, chains clank, halyards whack against masts, and somehow, it all seems charming.

But it was well after 4:00 when we left home today, and I had to seal my lips shut to maintain the fantasy, for as long as possible, that we might make Point Judith in time.  We were passing the exit for Waterford when Dave asked how long it would take to get to the Point.  “We’d have maybe ten minutes to spare if we don’t hit any slow spots,” I said, trying not to embellish, whine, or coerce.  

Dave is a master at maintaining an animated public face, but he had spent too many hours in traffic this week, and could not mask his disappointment.  “So I guess it will have to be New London,” he said. 

There is nothing wrong with New London.  The downtown boasts lovely Victorian buildings of aged red brick, but the transportation center is a utilitarian ferry depot, and we would sorely miss the joy of our accustomed ride over with our friends, Hallie and Buck.  Still, decision made, we are here in plenty of time to catch the ferry along with the woman and her extra head.

Once Dave joins us, we board the ferry, climb the metal staircase to the upper deck, and take our seats.  Dave is determined to be content and heads for the bar.  He returns with potato chips, two plastic cups of merlot, a beer, and a smile.  We click our drinks in a toast as the ferry churns out of the harbor.  Too bad my husband chooses to set his beer down, for he kicks it over, sending a cascade of golden brew toward our assembled belongings.  Argh.

An hour and a half later, it doesn’t matter, for we are encircled by friends at Dead Eye Dicks on Block Island, ordering swordfish, crab cakes, lobster rolls, and shrimp.  It’s the perfect spot for the first night, right across the street from our hotel, The Narragansett.

In the beginning, the “Race Around the Block” was the incentive for this island weekend.  Dave’s brother, Steve, would run the course, sweating, pumping, and panting, while the rest of us relaxed in the warmth of the afternoon sun at the finish line, sipping tasty mudslides and admiring the view of New Harbor.  The tradition has continued because increasingly we recognize how precious is this time together.

Last year we celebrated Janet and Art’s daughter’s wedding and Steve and Debby’s 40^th anniversary, although we were saddened to learn of Moo’s son’s divorce.  The year before that, Len had just retired, good reason to indulge in an extra mudslide.  Three years ago, we learned of Nelson’s Parkinsons diagnosis, and in 2009, I trudged off the ferry wearing a scarf, newly bald from chemo.  Dave had thrown out his back the morning we left for that visit, and this year, Joanie's the one wearing a back brace. But Moo’s husband Cisco has joined us for the first time; Art and Janet’s daughter is pregnant; Mary’s daughter just got married; Tucker got a job at Google, and Casey’s boyfriend, P.J.  got a job at IBM.  So we celebrate and support, depending on what’s called for.  “Peaks and valleys,” says Nelson’s wife, Anne.

Our topics, activities, and props have changed.  There is more emphasis on stretching before mounting our bikes, and the question, “How did you sleep?” is not idly made.  While none of us felt a need to bring a head in a bag, everyone carries a phone.  As we catch up and crow while poring over the photos stored in those phones, most reach for their reading glasses to do so.  Despite these signs of our aging, Block Island restores us.  Deb says, “As soon as I see the island come into view from the ferry, the weight lifts from my shoulders.  Here I can be a kid again, silly, and free-wheeling.”

Saturday night, after dinner at Dead Eye Dicks and a day of shopping, beaching, and bike rides, we gather in the living room at The Narragansett to sing.  A couple, Karen and Peter, gray-haired and about our age, are reading quietly on the couch.  I don’t give them much thought, but with a friendly smile, Joanie goes over to sit with them. Meanwhile, Art goes to the bar to buy them a drink, a kind gesture to offset our disturbing their peace.  I file away their lessons in courtesy, and am proud of my gracious friends. 

As everyone settles in, Dave strums his guitar, starts and stops a bit, trying out a few possibilities.  I think he’s crazy to bring the guitar over to the island.  He has to lug it around in addition to his backpack, and grapple with it while riding his bike.  I’d never bother, too much of a pain, but where I give up on something that seems like too much trouble, Dave is willing to deal with the inconvenience if it’s going to make a difference in the end.

And it does.  Would we have gathered on the couches and chairs at The Narry to sing if Dave hadn’t brought his guitar?  We limp through “Sloop John B” and some Simon and Garfunkle numbers, straggly and short on words.  Then the phones and reading glasses come out as Mary, Len, and Karen locate a lyrics site so everyone can lean in close to see the words.

Beatles songs seem embossed in our sixties-era souls and everyone belts out “You Won’t See Me.”  As we move on to “In My Life,” a few voices quiet as eyes fill with tears.     

“All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends

I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I've loved them all.”

Once just a pretty song, the lyrics now strike a poignant chord.  While every one of us has lost a loved one, this weekend at The Narry is a joy-filled moment, alive with laughter, friends, and memories in the making.

As we warble though Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son,” I reflect that ours was the youthful perspective when that song was popular.  Now, we are the wistful parents. Okay.  Enough of that.  Getting maudlin.  Time to ramp up the mood.  Nelson takes over the guitar for a while, then back to Dave for some Jonathan Edwards and our favorites, “Don’t Cry Blue” and “Shanty.”  Usually, we count on Steve’s harmonica for these two, but he left his guitar and harmonica at home.  No one gives him any grief about that though. Hmm.  He does not disappoint, however, and amazes us with a convincing vocal “harmonica” accompaniment.

It’s getting late, and even with the help of eyeglasses and cell phones, the tempo is slowing down.  I look around this circle and marvel at the decades, experiences, and life phases we’ve been through together:  our own graduations, weddings, pregnancies, job changes, and kids…not to mention, many birthdays.

This morning, while browsing the shops in town, I noticed and bought a greeting card, a vintage photograph of a line-up of little girls, each holding the waist of the child before her.  Audrey Hepburn was quoted in the caption beneath the picture, her words so apt, so true:  “The best thing to hold onto in this life is… each other.”    

Waiting with My Sisters for My Mom

I am grateful I have two sisters to wait with as we sit in the Green Room of Bryn Mawr Hospital.  Francie, the youngest, is intent on her iPad, sliding her fingers over the screen as she surveys a cartoon town, Springfield, home of the Simpsons.  Through a game called “Tapped Out” she has added houses, shrubs, sidewalks, and stores, as well as an amusement park and castle.  “I’m trying to make it as realistic as possible, but I probably overthink it.  I still haven’t put in stop signs.”  I comment that, given her goal of realism, this is a key feature to omit.  “Yeah, but all the cars are parked, so it’s okay.”

Rita, the middle child, in fact and personality as she is quick to point out, is playing solitaire.  There is not an actual card in sight, for she, too, is frowning at an iPad.  I am the oldest daughter and I don’t own an iPad.  I brought my book and Yankee Magazine and have not glanced at either one.  Actually, I am enthralled by Francie’s game.  “I put in all the flowers and vendors: it was a blank field when I started,” she says.  I'd no idea my sister had such city-planner skills. 

“Damn, someone just wrecked my castle,” she grouses and sighs.  “It’s okay.  I can rebuild it. “

Across from us, an old gentleman in heavy orthotic shoes snoozes, chin to chest, his hands clasped across his belly.  His walker is parked at his side.  A stately Asian woman sits alone in the corner, her back erect, her calming deep breaths so forceful as to be audible.  I hope everything works out all right for her and whomever she is here for.

My sisters and I are awaiting word of our mother.  She discovered a lump three weeks ago when we were on vacation.  She is stoic and didn’t want to interrupt or worry us, so by the time we’d all returned from our jaunts and she told us her news, she’d already had the necessary appointments and biopsy.  When the time came to deliver the lines she had practiced, Mom began her spiel with, “Before I say anything, I want you to know that everything is fine and under control.”

At 82, my mother is blessed with a busy schedule, good spirits, and great health… and she rarely, rarely, goes to doctors.  She drives her physician crazy.  “Oh, he wants me to get all kinds of tests, a colonoscopy, things like that, but I just tell him, ‘no thanks.’”  So my sisters and I consider ourselves lucky that she took the steps she did and agreed to this lumpectomy.

We are also lucky that she is a friend of the head of the hospital’s breast cancer department, a surgeon sought after by patients nationwide.   Mom has full confidence in him and to all appearances, has been totally relaxed about this procedure.   In fact, when I arrived from Connecticut last night, she was so chatty and cheery in her welcome that I said, “Clever of you to arrange this reason for us all to get together, Mom.”

The worst part for her, other than the biopsy and diagnosis, was last night’s shower with anti-bacterial soap.  Where I think showers are one of God’s great gifts, Mom is a bath kind of girl.  As she struggled not to slip on the wet tiles of the shower stall, she grumbled, “Never again.” 

So, free of bacteria and squeaky clean, Mom and I met my sisters at the hospital at 6:00 AM this morning.  She was bustled off for prep by a friendly nurse, and when we were guided to her side shortly after, she was dressed in the same blue-diamonds-on-white johnny I’ve worn for colonoscopies and mastectomies alike.  Who is the design genius now reaping big bucks off that pattern, I wonder?

Mom seemed at ease as she rested with one arm crooked behind her head, a pink plastic bracelet encircling her wrist, a needle access ready in the back of her hand.  A flat neon line ran across the screen of a monitor mounted behind her.  She laughed aloud when someone said, “Oops.  Too bad, Mom.  Apparently you’re dead.”

We were introduced to several nurses and the anesthesiologist, each of whom checked Mom’s bracelet and confirmed who she was and what she was in for.  The anesthesiologist observed that, according to his records, Mom had had a tonsillectomy.  “Well, yes, when I was four.  Seems a long time ago to be of any interest now.”   But there again, given her healthy history – and lack of doctors’ appointments – there was nothing else for the poor man to note.  Clearly he felt he had to say something. 

When the surgeon arrived, Mom said to him, “Everyone sends their love.  Can’t possibly remember all the people who told me to pass that along when they heard you were doing my procedure.  So there you are.  You are beloved.” 

He laughed modestly, then told Rita, Francie, and me to plan on about an hour’s wait.  A nurse gave Mom a shiny foil shower cap, which she slipped over her silver-white hair, tucking in a few errant tendrils.  She smiled brightly as we kissed her, and said, “see you soon!”  

It’s been forty-five minutes or so since we left her.  I go to the restroom and when I return, my sisters, in whispered giggles, give me a hard time because my flip-flops, true to their name, flipped and flopped so loudly I woke up the old man in orthotic shoes.  I sit down and study our three sets of painted toes, mushroom brown (Francie), eggplant (me), and neon midnight blue (Rita).  Not so long ago, Mom and Dad would have raised an eyebrow at painted toenails and told us they were tacky.   

Soon after, the surgeon enters the Green Room. He smiles reassuringly, nods, and indicates that we should follow him to a private adjoining room.  The surgery went perfectly.  He pulls out a pen and lined sheet of paper to draw a sketch of a torso, a breast, and a dotted incision line.  “Once it’s healed, it won’t look much different.  She’s in recovery and Joyce, at the desk, will let you know when you can see her.”  Francie picks up the drawing, folds it, and slips it into her purse.

Back to the Green Room, giddy we go.  The old man has fallen asleep again and the elegant Asian woman is gone.  Last week, Mom had told the three of us to Google “shoe ruins family picture.” “It’s in terrible taste,” Mom had said, “but it’s hysterical.”   We’d never gotten around to it, so now is the time.

Francie types it in on her iPad, scrolls through a few possibilities, and clicks on a likely choice, a group of tan, handsome, happy, twenty-somethings.  In the front row, a blond guy with the look of a surfer stands with legs planted wide, wide enough that the beige pump of the girl behind him appears to dangle, penis-like, between his legs. 

My sisters and I erupt in laughter desperately suppressed so as not to seem inappropriate or bother others.  From there, it’s an easy leap to YouTube videos of pooping dogs ruining family pictures.  Then Francie suggests we hold our breaths to see who can last longest; it’s been just under fifty years since last we held such a contest in our neighbor’s pool.  The seconds pass as we lock eyes and press our respective lips tight.  Rita’s hand goes up first as she inhales deeply, and ultimately, I win.  Not bad for the oldest.

As we’re taking a few breaths to recoup, Joyce comes to fetch us.

Mom is in Room #363.  We leave the green carpeting and sponge-painted geraniums in the Green Room to walk down the corridor under glaring white lights.  A nurse at the desk smiles as we pass, and we check out the numbers of each door along our way.  “363.  Here we are,” says Rita.

Francie knocks on the door and pushes it ajar.  “It’s your girls,” she says as we enter.   

        

 

          

Morning Constitutional

The day was glorious, sunny and warm, perfect for my morning walk.  I’d lathered up in sunscreen, daubed my lips with SPF 15 Chapstick, and donned Lululemon shorts, a camisole, sneakers, and sunglasses.  I grabbed a camera, just in case, my phone, just in case, and a beach button, just in case.  Ready to march.

Stride, stride, stride.  I passed through a shady stretch bordered by thickets draped in garlands of aromatic honeysuckle and multi-flora rose.  Wreathed in their scent and kissed by soft sea breezes, I broke into the sunshine by the tennis courts and saw an old man standing at the intersection. 

With his hands on his hips, he watched the white-clad kids at their lessons as they darted about swinging rackets and chasing balls.  He was tiny, wiry, and tan, clothed in a weathered blue tee-shirt and well-worn khakis.  I thought, do I take the left at the stop sign, miss him and march on, or continue straight and cross his path?  If I slowed to meet him, I knew we would walk together, a meander or shuffle, not the march I’d planned.  And I decided, without deciding - for my feet seemed to chart their own course - to continue straight. 

“World War II Veteran – Navy” was embossed on his faded green cap.  His smile embraced me, so cheerful and pleased to meet a beautiful woman (so he said) along his way.  His eyes reminded me of my Uncle Ding’s, pale blue, clear, and forthright.  As we fell into step, I thanked him for his service and told him that my husband’s father and uncles had served in Italy and North Africa.  He nodded and said, “I was in the Navy.  Didn’t want the Army.  Figured, you go down on a ship, you go down.  Wasn’t as sure of what might happen if the Germans got you.” 

I said, “So, what was the deal then, with all you young men rushing to sign up?  Didn’t know better?  Bravado?  Wanted to fight for the country?”

“Oh, you wanted to fight for the country, no matter your age.  There was this guy I knew.  Big guy.  Only fifteen years old.  Guadalcanal.  Saw all kinds of action before they found out his age and shipped him home.”  He shook his head with a thoughtful smile tinged with amusement, and perhaps pride at the guts and gall of that boy.  “Myself, I was on a destroyer.  Sunk a German sub in the Azores.” 

He waved away my admiration and I tried to picture the young sailor he had been on the deck of that ship. 

He stopped to face me.  “But we don’t learn,” he said sadly. “Korea.  Viet Nam.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.  We had no business entering those fights.  That killing’s been going on for hundreds of years.  The French got involved.  The Russians.  Got their frickin’ butts handed to ‘em.  Sorry…” he said, apologizing for his language.  We were quiet for a while, and then walked on, both of us watching our feet cross the asphalt, one slow step at a time.

“D’you think it’s like the gun thing?” I asked.  “More about money than principle?  Manufacturers of tanks, planes, and weapons keen to keep us in?” 

Again he stopped, and I mused that such pauses served as a little break as well as a point of emphasis.  “Big business runs everything,” he said.  “Runs Congress.  They shouldn’t be allowed more than three terms.  Who’s that guy?  Maybe from Michigan?  Just elected again.  Been in office for forty years or something.”

I snorted.  “Lots of people favor term limits, but no one in Congress is in a big hurry to vote himself out of a job.”

Our stroll had taken us to the water.  Feathered stalks of elephant grass swayed along the channel to the sea.  Red winged blackbirds sang and swooped low; gulls glided against the blue sky.  A burly unshaven man in mud-splattered workboots and a camo baseball cap was climbing into a truck parked by the side of the road.  He spotted my companion’s WW II insignia and descended to cross the street to us, his smile broad and hand out-stretched.  “Marine Corps.  1970’s.  Thank you for your service.”

“And you for yours.  Viet Nam?”  asked my vet.

“Nope.  Came in at the tail end.”  He touched the brim of his cap, said, “ Have a good day” and left us.

“Every day is a good day,” replied the old man.

Certainly, this was a good day, with its scent of honeysuckle, roses, and the sea.  I could hear the whoops and shrieks of children playing at the nearby beach over the rush of surf.  The halo of white sunshine was bright on the sandy road and danced on the water in the channel.  Eras seemed to layer and unfold even as we stood there: the past seen by the clear blue eyes that met mine, my own childhood, and that of my kids in this place, blurring with this moment of sand crunching beneath my sneakers and the sun’s warmth on my skin. 

We stood at a crossroad; his path lay over the bridge, mine, straight along the shore.  I hesitated, willing, ready, wishing, to walk further with him.  A car had stopped and the driver graciously waved us on.  Suddenly, after all that meandering, there was no time to pause.  We had to move.   

“You go,” said the old man.  “I take my time.”  Of course I knew this.  We’d been taking our time together, stopping and talking and stopping and talking.  But I sensed he was ready to part; maybe I’d rushed him even though, to my sense, I had slowed down.

So I waved at him and the waiting driver, and, inexplicably teary, marched away.     

  

            

Cheered by the Ice Bucket Challenge

How can a shocking rush of icy water help those suffering from Lou Gehrig’s disease?  “At first I thought it was ridiculous,” said my daughter Casey.  “What if people just dump water over their heads and don’t give any money?  But the thing is, they are giving money.”  The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge has swept Facebook, and to some degree the nation, raising $100 million as of today, according to the Forbes website.

Casey and I were driving to her apartment when she described these initial impressions.  Her boyfriend PJ was waiting with a bucket of water and a bag of ice, for my daughter had been challenged and was ready to take up the gauntlet, douse herself, donate, and pass it on. 

When we arrived, Casey ran upstairs to change into a tee shirt and shorts, then returned to the driveway where PJ, my husband, Dave, and I waited.  While the men held up their phones to video, Casey stood with feet planted, a wide grin on her face, and a stainless steel bucket of ice and water in her hands.  Formally, she thanked her friend Amanda for the challenge and passed it on to several of her co-workers before upending the bucket over her head with a triumphant shriek.  Fun to watch; pleased it wasn’t me. One more reason to be glad I’m not on Facebook.

What a crazy idea.  The glee it gives me is reminiscent of that induced in the seventies by the streaking fad.  I remember squeals and laughter shattering the scholarly silence as a troop of naked students with underwear over their heads pranced through the college library.  While no donations were given, it was silly and fun in the midst of somber times of war, the draft, and social upheaval, a gift of goofiness that seemed a momentary release of breath long held.

How I wish we’d learned more in the forty years intervening, but the news continues to be soul-crushing: a young black man shot dead by a police officer in Ferguson, Mo., an American journalist beheaded by ISIS terrorists, the mid-East wrenched by brutality and conflict.  One could lose all faith in our ability to cooperate, care, and act with kindness in the wake of these acts and the resulting grief and sense of helplessness.  And then, along comes an opportunity to help sufferers of a terrible disease through this loony challenge from friend to friend, colleague to colleague, and sister to sister. For a few days after Casey’s ice bath, my daughter called and said, “Did you know Francie, Matt, and Campbell challenged you and Dad on Facebook?”

Sigh.  My sister Francie, her husband, and son had taken the challenge and named us as their successors.  Initially we thought we’d just make the donation, but then a friend’s eight-year-old boy, yet another PJ, accepted the challenge himself and passed it on to Dave. That we could not ignore.

So we donned bathing suits, sat side-by-side on a stonewall, and enlisted our almost-four-years-old grand-niece, Ava, to help us.  She waited for the thumbs-up signal from camera-woman Casey and tossed a cup of water on our heads to start us off.  As tradition dictates, we thanked our challengers, and called on our son, Tucker, and nephews, Trevor and Christopher, to carry on.  With muscles tense and teeth gritted, we dumped the ice-filled buckets over our heads, and I couldn’t help but beam, happy to be part of this goofy chain of gift-givers.

I think of Philip Simmons, author of the inspirational book Learning to Fall who passed away from ALS.  I think of my college classmate Ben Brewster, a tall, robust, rower who also died of the disease.  And I think of Lou Gehrig himself.  What would they think of this freezing flurry of glee and giving?  I have to think they’d love it. 

Cell Phone Sleepless

ZZZZZZZT!  A jarring electronic alert shocks me awake.  I check the clock.  11:15.  I am not pleased.  I’d fallen asleep naturally, without Ambien or meditative deep breaths, maybe twenty minutes ago, a rare pleasure, and this buzzed announcement of a text on Dave’s phone totally pisses me off. 

We are in Rhode Island and it is our first night on vacation.  The summer awaits, open before us, beckoning, brimming with promise.  I lie wide-eyed on my pillow reviewing my blessings, seeking to quell an abundance of blame with no real targets.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Relish the moment.  Dave snores softly beside me.  Sound asleep.  Of course. 

Damn phone.

Really.  Damn phone.  I could go on such a tear.  An image flares to mind of our trip up and passing glimpses of too many drivers with heads bent and thumbs tapping.  I’m particularly impressed by the variation where the phone is propped on the wheel to allow texting while maintaining a view of the road.  And what of Monday night, post-pilates class?  Out with Dave for a quick drink and quesadillas amid couples fixated on the phones in their hands instead of each other.  Honestly.

Focus on your breath, Lea.  Let it go.  You can control only your own behavior; not that of others.  

What’s the time?  1:30.  Maybe I drifted off.  I get out of bed and go to the bathroom.  Back to bed.  It’s hot.  Up again.  Fumble in a drawer for a short-sleeved tee-shirt.  Change shirts.  Trudge to the fan in the window.  Push the button.  Nothing.  Feel for the cord behind the fan.  Run fingers down the cord to the plug.  Slide hand over the wall to find outlet.  Feel the outlet for slots.  Fleeting thoughts of electrocution as I stick my fingernails into the slots while trying to position the plug.  Success.  Switch on fan.  Back to bed.  Slip under covers. 

Rats.  Cold now.  Sigh.

Time?  3:30.  Chilly.  What if Mom and Rita arrive tomorrow and close all the windows and blast the air conditioner?  I hate air conditioning.  Summer’s all about open windows, breeze-blown rose scent, and birdsong.  For heaven’s sake, Lea.  Stay in the moment!  Focus on your breath! My exhortations increasingly chide more than soothe. 

Time?  4:14.  Too late for Ambien.  I’m screwed.  No more sleep tonight.

Dependable as an alarm clock, a lone bird greets the rising sun with a spiraling trill. A purple-pink blush touches the sky.   Dave stirs and opens his eyes.  We smile at each other and he says, “Hmmm.  Fan’s on.  Did you get up?”

I fill him in on my mental meandering and he says, “Let me bore you back to sleep.”  In a barely audible monotone, he mumbles a fake dream recital, no less halting and disconnected than the real thing.  “And then there was this path?  It went into the woods.  Well, they were sort of like woods.  But not really.  And the path went down?  I think it went down.  And then to the left a little?  Maybe it went right.  Not sure.  It was weird, but not that unusual.”

And then we crack up.  The bed shakes with our laughter because he might as well have been following my mental trail of cell phones and air conditioning.  

Time?  6:41.  And we’ve already had eggs and a second cup of coffee.  The sun is up, the lone bird has been joined by a chorus of cheery companions, and I’m not tired at all.