bunt sign

Tuesday, February 6, 2001

Let's say the speed limit on a road you have to drive every day is 45 miles per hour. You're familiar with the road and all its twists and turns, and nothing is likely to surprise you. No children play on this road, ever. Now, suppose you get stuck for a mile or so behind some oblivious, bone-headed half-wit going 35 while chitchatting on a cell phone. Once you get around this person, shouldn't you be allowed to go 55 for a mile, to make up the difference? If the sign says "45," that's just an average, right? Yeah, that's what I thought.

What always amazes me, though, is how much worse the other drivers get when I've had a poor night's sleep.

This was one of those days that looks through a window like the middle of May, until you notice branches twitching madly back and forth. I was out in the wind several times today, and it was bone-chillingly cold. The Arctic air blasts down from the north and takes up residence in my head and throat. It's a not-so-gentle reminder that, despite the array of new colors amid the green and gold, it's not spring yet. Maybe when pitchers and catchers report to camps in Arizona and Florida next week, we can start to put winter behind us. But let's not be fooled by a couple of warm days into thinking we've survived another season. We will, probably, but we haven't yet.

The doctor gave Mom good news today. The macular hole is closed, and she can lift her head up next Tuesday. The extra week is to make sure the hole stays closed. And even after she raises her head, the air bubble inside her eye will continue to heal the wrinkles in her retina until it dissolves. Then, finally, she should be able to get glasses that will let her see the bright, beautiful world in all its glory.

Almost as good was the news that she can cut down on the medications that have been playing havoc with her system. She hasn't felt like eating much because of the effects of the pills, but she's off those now. Last night she had me stop at McDonald's, because French fries were all she wanted. There's a healing quality in French fries that even chicken soup can't compete with.

Tonight we had split pea soup. That's good, too.

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And sometimes the most lost and wasted attract the most balanced and sane,
And the wild and the reckless take up with the clocked and the timed.