Back in Time: Pictures of a Bastille Birthday in a 4 Inch Frame

Having only recently freed the stopper in the bottle in which I have kept my words for the past three weeks, it is now time to play a little catch up. Forgive me if this is a bit out of chronological order, but the following few posts need to be purged so that I can move forward. Unfortunately, by the time I finally get things back in order I will be absent for another month while I seek adventure in Northern Spain. Still, I am encouraged because my mood is lifting and I am starting to feel like myself again. Hang in there and hopefully you will be rewarded with something a bit more palatable in days to come. If our current relocation plans hold, my trip to Spain will be the prelude to the end of this project. I have committed myself to continuing through our repatriation, but beyond that, I intend to take this no further. I will follow this project with a Journal about my time on the Camino and then after that . . . who knows. For now, let’s board our time machine and go back a couple of weeks to pick up the things where we left off:

I regret that a fairly busy two weeks has kept me from my usual musings. Entertaining guests from afar requires a certain amount of social presence that I am not terribly used to anymore. The truth is, I have grown quite accustomed to a life of relative solitude. I have discovered that the isolation provided by my remote location is something less than the prison I once believed it to be. It is in this forced sequestration that I have discovered a great amount of happiness over these last two years. While I have no intention of living the remainder of my days in this reclusive fashion, it is clear to me now that it is in this manner that great works of art have been painted and great pieces of literature written. With the constant hum of joyful activity filling our walls, I find myself saddened to see our visitors leave. Still, I cannot help but long for silence to return to this hermitage that we have built for ourselves here in France. We are 4 against the world and I rather like it that way. There is a sweet harmony within our small group that fills each day with a song that I pray will never end. This experience has drawn us together. We have learned a great deal from each other. We have learned to depend on each other for the strength to carry on. I will miss these days terrible when we return to the U.S. and our lives become shattered with activities and obligations pulling us back apart as if carried on a receding tide. I don’t question our decision to return to our homeland, for there is also beauty in the ebb and flow of the life we left behind. It is certain that when the tide rolls back in, we will appreciate our time together all the more. Still, it has been with great luck that we have found ourselves forced into such tight quarters for these past two years. This came at a time in which my children were young and vibrant and sharing their every waking and slumbering moment is a gift that I will cherish for all time.

It is this great strength of family solidarity born of solitude that has helped us weather our most recent storm. In providing you with the details of this most recent episode in our lives, I intend to utilize a tool with which I have only recently become familiar. In a book borrowed from a friend, I have discovered some wonderful truths about writing. It was within this paperbacked volume that I realized that in writing and in life, real beauty can be painted within the confines of a 4 inch frame. One can capture a great deal of life and translate this into written form by looking at an event through this tiny picture frame. So, think back with me . . . back to when you were young and your birthday was something you actually looked forward to rather than something you chose to ignore. When I was young, there were two types of birthdays in my mind. School year birthdays and Summer birthdays. I was the former and forever dreamed of being the latter. Pool parties and Summer BBQ seemed like a lot more fun to me than a potentially cold and windy fall afternoon. I suppose those with Summer birthdays had their own axes to grind. Never getting to bring cupcakes to school on the actual day of their birth and having to recognize it earlier in the year so they didn’t feel left out at school makes for a false summit and somewhat trivializes the actual day when it finally arrives. Still, to this day, I am a bit envious of my eldest son’s great fortune for being born under the sweet sting of the warm Summer sun.

The need to embark on a summer vacation trip the day following his birthday meant that having the shindig on his actual birthday would be a “no-go”, so we opted for the weekend before. Actually, we opted for July 14th to be exact. Does anyone out there know why this was a parental mistake of epic proportions? No? Well, let me explain. In addition to the expected dismal turn out that we had been willing to accept by having his birthday party during a two month span when nearly every Frenchman goes on holiday, we had unwittingly chosen a National holiday. July 14th is Bastile Day. For those that aren’t familiar with this French holiday, just think of it as arranging to host a birthday party on the 4th of July. Even my best childhood friend would have been unwilling to sacrifice popping off fireworks in favor of watching me consume birthday cake after opening a gift he would have preferred to have purchased for himself. Having sent the invitations on the last day of school and not having a school directory from which we could extract the invitees contact information, we were forced to let it ride and prepare for the worst. And the worst is what we got. Refreshments were purchased and lungs were exhausted in the filling of decorative balloons for a party that would never be. Not a single guest would arrive and not a single party favor dispensed. Now, my eldest son is a stoic sort with a resilience equal to the waterproofing on a duck’s back, however, he is still just a child of but 10 years. Watching the rise and fall of his expression made for a theatrical performance that would never leave a dry eye in the audience. 

 There he sat at the head of a table covered in balloons with a setting for six and not a single guest to greet with a smile. He sat there for the longest time, quiet and content. Certain that someone would show. As the minutes ticked by, the sparkle in that sea of blue green beneath each brow began to fade. The usual wrinkle that etches lines down his freckled nose began to relax and all other trappings of his usual smile were now erased. He made light of the situation and handled himself as he always does . . . with grace and confidence, but you could see he was a bit shattered inside. I just sat there next to him . . . lost for words. In a moment in time, I watched him through my 4 inch picture frame. A stiff upper lip guarding against a hint of disappointment and a steely glint in his eye revealing not the child he has been, but the man he is becoming. In that moment, the freckles faded away and his wind-blown tussle of sandy blond hair was replaced with the trappings of a man of my equal age. Through this 4 inch frame, I could see myself. My sorrow was soon matched by a wave of joy at the realization that what we have done for him in this short two years has made him my equal at the tender age of 10. What has taken me my life time to figure out, he has a handle on (if only subconsciously) well before his teens. There is wisdom in those eyes and confidence in that smile. No disappointment could be his equal and what would have many his age in tears would be forgotten in the blink of an eye. And so, to ease the sting felt by all, we did as we have done for these past two years . . . we overcame. Just family, no friends, 4 against the world. We made good with the water balloons and consumed as much of his birthday tart (French kid, what can I say) as we dare. With grandmothers on hand, we even had enough for a badminton tournament of sorts. And though this was a disappointing year where birthday participation is concerned, I know that in coming years his table will be surrounded with those who know a man that has lived a life and endeavored to stand on his own in the face of the Northern wind. They will admire him for that and will fall all over themselves for a seat at that table. He will be measured by who he is, not by what he has. A King without riches except for his heart, and that . . . is a HAPPY Birthday indeed. I wish you the best my son. Cheers. R.

The Heart Grows Fonder, so PLAY BALL!

Did you miss me? Likely not, but I missed you. Perhaps it is true what they say about absence. On the heels of hosting guests in our home for two weeks, we boarded a ship for a tour of the Adriatic and Aegean Seas. As such, this vacation season has seen fit to keep me from my “work”. Now somewhat desperate to pen a few paragraphs I find myself unable to gather my thoughts. I have written and re-written at least two other pieces in my head and still can’t find the magic. Feeling like a withering soul searching the desert for the drop of water needed to quench my thirst, I am digging my fingertips through the sand looking for the words I seem to have lost. Though this post is likely to be nothing more than a muddy puddle of rainwater, it already tastes like the most refreshing thing I have ever consumed. It seems not that I lack the requisite inspiration, but rather the drive to act upon it. I could certainly blame outside sources, but that would only prove a half truth. While it is true that the kids are home for the summer and as my favorite song lyric goes, “It is hard to lay a golden egg when everyone’s around”, I know I could still find the time to write if I really wanted to. Part of me wants to and part just doesn’t give a damn. Lazy? Perhaps. Distracted? Definitely. Indeed we have much on our plate these days. Our time here in France is drawing to an early end and I will be displaced from my family for an entire month come September. It is, however, the uncertainty that follows that really has me on edge.

It would seem that we may return to life in the United States as early as October. Not having this set is stone, but merely hanging out there like a storm cloud on the horizon makes it all the more difficult to bear. The laundry list of tasks to accomplish if this is to become a reality is mind boggling and being unable to act since this is only speculative feels a bit like trying to tread water in molasses. It has ground me to a halt. Or maybe I am simply deluding myself. Maybe I am simply overthinking things as I often tend to do. In my younger, more athletic, days I played baseball like a heroin addict. I lived and breathed the game. I was fortunate to have been privately coached by a couple of great mentors one of which gave me a great piece of advice for the game and for life as a whole. He said, “A pitcher’s biggest mistake is overthinking”. Don’t think, just do. That is the way I write, and a recent over-analysis of my efforts has me throwing the ball all over the damned place. I recently began reading a book entitled “Bird by Bird”, which is a fantastic book about the art of writing, but seems to have not had the desired effect on me. Where writing is concerned, I am certainly a bit rough around the edges and without formal training, but it has been a process that has come fairly naturally to me. Thinking too much about the process of writing has dulled my senses and unraveled my nerve. So, maybe the best thing to do now is go back to playing catch in the backyard. That is where it all started anyway, isn’t it? So, I shall place my bookmark and forget about the process of writing for awhile. I will throw on my Nike jersey and “Just Do It” for a bit and see what happens. I have to do something soon because I think my wife is starting to get concerned about me. I am not myself when I don’t write. So, for better or worse, I am simply going to fill page after page with everything that comes to mind. Hopefully, somewhere in there, I will find what it is I think I lost and this won’t seem like such a struggle anymore. Wish me luck. Goodbye for now. R.

Twelve Years: The Heartbreaking Story of the Artist Formerly Known as Jack Butler

Recently, the wife and I celebrated 12 years of marital bliss, and boy were their fireworks. No, seriously, there were actual fireworks. We spent the evening watching the final round of a multi-jour pyrotechnic competition over the muddy waters of the Garonne River. With children in tow, this was not perhaps the most romantic of all getaways, but after 12 years it doesn’t take as much pageantry to keep the spark alive. It was a wonderful evening in the company of good friends which left me with only mild gastro-intestinal discomfort. On the heels of my dysenteric battle with whatever variety of avian influenza my wife brought home with her from the Orient, I seem to have managed to place a cherry on top of that sundae with a round of lively food poisoning. Two weeks or better clinging to or perched atop the toilet has me feeling lighter than I have in years. It was during one of these “thinking” sessions that things went from bad to worse.

We had only recently welcomed guests back into the Butler Hotel from the good ole USA when my stomach required another time out. When I emerged, another kilo or two thinner, I noted an alarming stabbing pain in my left arm followed by a complete loss of feeling in two of the fingers on my left hand. Soon the entirety of the inside of my left arm was numb. I advised the wife of said condition and assured her that I would be fine. Despite her concern and insistence on a trip to the Hospital, I remained adamant that all was well and that I didn’t require medical treatment. I remained adamant for a good 15 minutes anyway, and then I agreed that something seemed askew and medical treatment might be in order. By the time we reached the hospital the left side of my neck and left cheek were joining the party. Now certain of an untimely death at the hands of a stroke or cardiac episode, I become terribly homesick. Waiting in the triage area of 100 or so amputees and drowning victims, I began to regret our decision to seek medical attention. A single nurse bounced this way and that assessing patients. When finally she came round to me, the possibility that my symptoms could in fact lead to a complete system melt down meant that I was placed at the front of the queue.

Now, despite my continued support of the social health care system here in France, there is (as I have come to discover) a somewhat darker reality to face with regard to emergent care. While no one can dispute the tremendous cost and disproportionate availability of care in the US, I fall within the category of folks that can afford to pay for the services with all the fancy bells and whistles, so when it comes time to crack open my chest I would feel much more comfortable in the hands of the fine folks that have brought us the likes of Grey’s Anatomy and ER. If I had my pick between the two, I would choose Derek Shephard over Smelly Howser, MD (who, as it just so happened, was to provide me care on this particular evening). No, scratch that, I would actually rather have the actor Patrick Dempsey’s “pretend” practiced hands wielding the scalpel meant to crack open my chest, at least the last thoughts in my head before sudden death wouldn’t be: “Geez this guy smells bad”. Unfortunately, Smelly was my only option so I put myself in his possibly capable hands. He seemed absolutely giddy to have the opportunity to work on a REAL patient. “Smelly” was an intern and I am fairly certain the Hospital would not have been comfortable with him flying solo on a case, but since he was the only one in the hospital with a fair proficiency with my mother tongue he got called up to the “big leagues”. Besides, I was not a French national and likely not a great loss to the populace should my fragrant doctor blow the diagnosis.

Soon enough, I was strapped up to a machine that looked more likely to cause a sudden and painful death to someone who had just walked the “green mile” than render any useful medial information. Smelly asked politely that I close my eyes while the machine did its thing. I can only assume the reason for this is that he didn’t want me to see him hopelessly trying to jumpstart the equipment by flipping every conceivable knob and switch he could find only to realize the damned thing was unplugged. Nonetheless, I was pleased to oblige since the cloud of body odor escaping from beneath his lab coat was making my eyes burn while my tear ducts worked a double shift to keep flames from consuming my pupils.  When a read-out was finally forthcoming, he pondered my EKG ribbon for an uncomfortably long period of time. He flipped it upside down and back again in an effort to make sense of it all. Eyeing me suspiciously, he was able to determine that since I wasn’t actually dead yet after all the time spent examining the test results, he could in fact rule out a stroke or major cardiac event. His diagnosis was that I had pinched a nerve in my neck and the best way to confirm a neurologic diagnosis such as this would be a good set of chest films. "I never went to medical school, but I don't think nerves are actually visible on an X-ray Dr. Howser".  Still, in came a team of white coated technicians to wheel me down to X-ray in my dirty dressing gown and dirtier hospital bed. I swear the last guy to have worn it must have been in some sort of beachside accident as I found myself covered in sand by the end of the evening. Once at the doors of the X-ray lab, my orderlies looked at one another and in unison abandoned me in the hallway. I sat there on my gurney in the hallway for a fair amount of time, watching people come and go before a very curt older gentlemen came by and unlocked the X-ray suite and wheeled me in. He asked if I could stand and placed me in front of the antiquated x-ray machine that I swear to God looked more like a Kodak instamatic camera than an actual piece of medical equipment. Once the picture was taken, I resumed my post in my sandbox and was wheeled back outside. Orderlies once again appeared and wheeled me in the direction of the room from which I originally came.

It is important to note that on both trips down the corridor I felt more like I was at the carnival than the hospital. Like a good round of bumper cars (dodge em’s as they call the in the UK), they managed to jam my cart into everything within sight including an elderly lady who appeared to be bleeding rather profusely but receiving far less attention than I. As we approached “my” room, it was clear that it was now occupied by other tenants, so I was simply left once more in a hallway out in front of the nurse’s station. I was in good company though. Like a series of aircraft waiting to taxi at an airport, several of my fellow patients were lined up in the hallway in varying states of unconsciousness. The lady closest to me appeared to be a burn victim. As I awaited . . . well . . . whatever was supposed to happen next, my lovely bride appeared at my bedside. Soon enough, Smelly did return and gave me a handful of pills which I gleefully consumed even though I had not the slightest clue what was in them. Pain killers I guess, but to be honest they could have been sugar pills for all I know. Just as well though, not once had I ever really described my discomfort as “pain”. Anyway, my rookie doctor said I was free to go and described my less than dire situation to my wife. We parted with a friendly hand shake and he told my wife to go wait for me in the waiting room down the hall. We shook hands and he departed. I sat there for some time waiting for my clothes to be returned to me. Unfortunately, no one ever came. No one even managed to let down my bedside so I could get out of my sandbox. Eventually Smelly returned and asked where my wife had gone. I told him that she had done as instructed and when he last left me, so had she.

Smelly seemed dismayed by this as apparently it was her responsibility to obtain my clothing, which to my surprise had been with me the whole time in a trash sack beneath my bed. He told me to follow him (again without letting down my bedside), so I scrambled off the end of the bed, attempting to keep hold of my garbage sack full of clothes and the back of my open gown so that my bare ass wouldn’t be visible to the entire world. He paced this way and that looking for a place that I might change. Eventually he landed upon a janitor’s closet and closed the door behind me. I flipped on the light and saw that I wasn’t the only one to have used this as a dressing room based upon the discarded robe and empty trash sack on the floor. I added mine to the pile along with my dignity and self-respect, then joined my wife for an unceremonious exit. This didn’t cost anything of course, and for once I felt as though I got what I paid for. On our way home we stopped at McDonalds to be sure that if I didn’t make it through the night, we would be certain that it was the result of thoroughly clogged arteries.

Fortunately, morning arrived and I was there to see it, so I once more resume my post as the co-head of this household. No, I shouldn’t say that. Had the prior night’s adventure proven to be serious, my family would have been lost without me. How do I know? It is really quite simple. When I changed my profession I also unwittingly changed my name. You may refer to me as my family does: Mr. Hey W. My. My middle name is “where’s” for those that haven’t sorted it out just yet. I am not longer Jack, Dad, or any of the other millions of things I have been called in my life. I am now simply the keeper of lost things and the guide by which all is found. If I were to die tomorrow, none of them would make it to the funeral because they wouldn’t be able to find the car keys. Until next time. R.

Perspiration and Interpretation: Blogger Wins by a Landslide

I am a simple man with simple ways. And this is how I like my technology . . . SIMPLE. After some tinkering around over at WordPress, I have realized many of the keen features that would allow for someone more interested in the intricacies to produce something of real value. Unfortunately I am not that guy. Like I said . . . SIMPLE. Blogger does an equally adequate job with perhaps a bit less bravado, but that is what I really like about it. It is easy to utilize for someone as antiquated as I, and I find I need nothing more advanced than a simple (there’s that word again) way to get my message out there. I am not interested in brilliant graphic displays or Hollywood theatrics. Words on a page are about the best you can hope for from me. It has crossed my mind to occasionally post a photo of my latest art work, but my generally attitude of sloth and disdain tend to keep me from any grand technological advancements. Don’t get me wrong, I am a child of the technological age and I could as likely rewire your television as fix your lawnmower, but the less I am tied to a computer the better I feel. They are a necessary evil and I stay up with it as much as modern life requires, but under no circumstance do I feature myself more than a casual “user”. That being said, let’s get back to the basics and let me share with you my discoveries for the day.

According to the Mercury, it has turned off quite warm the last day or two. Friday of this past week, in fact, I would even argue was even a bit “hottish”. Now, I am from the middle of middle America, so my concept of hot is a bit skewed. This is not to say that there are hotter places in the universe . . . the SUN for example. Most rednecks will tell you with a hillbilly twang that “tain’t the heat that gets yer, it’s the humidity!”. This week it has averaged around 99 degrees in the heartland which, by Phoenix standards, is not all that compelling. What the raw temp doesn’t tell you is how sweaty that can make you. Today’s forecast back in Kansas was looking for a lovely 106 and we haven’t even made it into the REALLY hot months yet. We are fairly spoiled here in France since our average this time of year and this week in particular is somewhere in the mid-seventies. This single day last week was a notable exception and we did experience temperatures approaching the mid-nineties. The truth is, I could banter around numbers all day long, but there is one equalizing factor that must be accounted for. AIR CONDITIONING.

We don’t have it. In fact, I don’t know of anyone in France who does. My car has it, but this is a luxury upgrade that you don’t necessarily expect to find even in a brand new vehicle. It is because Mother Nature has seen fit to bestow upon this part of the world her very own element of climate control, there is really no need for it. That is to say, USUALLY there is no need. When the temperature begins to rise, even my ordinarily cave-like stone cottage becomes a bit more like a wood fired pizza oven. Sweating is just what you do. Again, all the more reason for adequate deodorant protection, but I won’t jump on that soapbox today (stay tuned though . . . it is never too far in the back of my mind). During the day, confining myself to the lower floor keeps things tolerable, however, eventually I must sleep and that’s when things get sticky . . . and sweaty . . . and sweaty . . . and sticky. There are times that I don’t mind such sweltering and sultry conditions in my bedroom, but I am usually not trying to sleep. Movies have a way of romanticizing extreme heat. Take one of my favorites for an example: A Time to Kill. There have never been a set of people that looked more sexually ripe than when Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock took to the screen. Scene after scene portrayed them with a glistening sheen that must have taken several coats of baby oil to achieve. Hell, it even made Samuel Jackson look desirable . . . well, sort of. He needed a shave and a hair cut, but you get the point. Sweaty people LOOK sexy, though for me the feeling is a bit less romantic. I have no hair atop my head to stem the rolling tide of sweat from pouring into my eyes. What doesn’t see fit to blind me with a salty sting seems to retreat off the back of my naked scalp in a cascade of Niagara proportions. When my shirt has reached its saturation point, there is nothing left for the remaining perspiration to do but seek to winter even further South. The natural consequence of this is a tremendously sweaty crack that can be seen from space.

None of this, of course, makes you very keen to socialize, so imagine my disappointment when my doorbell rang and I was forced to face the outside world in a tepid pool of my own sweat. It was my neighbor and his 20 something daughter. I took a towel and squeegee to myself before opening the door and greeted them as freshly as I could manage on such a sweltering day. The reason for their visit was to inquire whether they could use my WiFi as their internet service was down and they needed more connectivity than their smartphones would provide them. None of that is really of any import other than as a sweet segue to my other topic for the day.

My sister-in-law once commented that the “trick” to French vocabulary is to simply try to remember the “fancy” way to express yourself in English and you will be pretty close to the French equivalent. This linguistic tool has, on more than one occasion, saved my skin and is really fairly obvious in its inception. American English has seemingly lost most of its formality after our Declaration of Independence, still there are a few of us out there that still remember our Grammar School lessons which were full of these more button-down words and phrases. Make no mistake, the English language is fairly complicated and it is our need to make things less confusing that has lead us to abandon many of these words and phrases. For simplicity’s sake we stick with the familiar so as to not add confusion since English is no longer a terribly implicit language even though duplicative language still makes for lively conversation on occasion. French can be quite formal and incomplete because they utilize a great deal more context in their communication than we do in English. Meaning is implied by circumstance so fewer words are needed to express one’s self . At least, that is the way it seems to the uninitiated. And yes, unfortunately I am still fairly uninitiated.

So, when my neighbor went to introduce his daughter (whom I had not met), he utilized a fairly formal mode of English. Perhaps it was my deliriously sweaty condition that had me at a loss for words, but the conversation nearly went something like this:

Neighbor: I would like to present to you my daughter __________.

Me: Well, I would have preferred for her to come of her own free will, but I appreciate the very kind gift.

Neighbor: ???

Me: I promise to take good care of her, she seems a lovely young lady. How much do you feed her? Does she come with any special instructions?

Neighbor: ????

Me: Do you happen to have a gift receipt in the event she breaks or I want to exchange her?

Neighbor: ?????

Me: I feel like I should give you a gift in return, but I was sort of unprepared for all of this. Have a great day, and thanks again!

Fortunately, the fact that I was beginning to once more drown in the profuse sweat that immediately returned after my toweling off meant that I was unable to really say much at all. This moment of pause gave me time to collect myself and realize this was an introduction, NOT a transfer of ownership. You see, when someone “presents” something to me I presume it to be a gift or award . . . something for me to keep and call my own. Seldom am I forced to infer the meaning of this word from the circumstances because we simply say we would like to “introduce” somebody. To “present” oneself or another is naturally quite correct and our shared formality comes from the universal use of Latin throughout both languages. What this all really amounts to is a massive rationalization for my difficulty in learning the French language. It has taken me a lifetime to become even moderately functional with short form English, so how in the hell at my age am I supposed to go back and sort the whole thing out again. Verb conjugation and the like are not as complicated in English, still there are a million or so other pitfalls to trip you up. As such, I remain in awe of those who command both languages with such ease and grace. Mixing the two of them gives me a tremendous headache and has me sputtering in a broken dialect that nobody seems to understand and has most questioning if I need a bib to catch my drool.

As a final thought, even though it seems that I have argued that French is more implicit and confusing than English, written communication seems to level that equation. I would like to note at the start that I will no longer be available for two way conversation using any form of communication other than a direct phone call. We might not imply literal meaning as much in our verbal communication as the French, but we damn sure infer a tone whenever we put pen to paper . . . er mouse to screen? It is at this point that even the most literal comment can be taken to mean something entirely different and have me wondering why my wife is so pissed off with me. A recent text conversation with my wife serves as a great example. We were to meet to do a little shopping in the city, but she had to drop by the post office before our rendezvous. I received a text right before our appointed meeting time indicating that she was still at the post office and that she had been waiting for a while in line. Trying to determine where and when we would then eventually meet, I simply asked “how much longer?”. To me, this seemed a harmless and natural inquiry to her messages of “at post office” and “been here 25 min”. She gathered that I was annoyed and was being critical with her for getting held up. Neither of these things were the truth, I was simply trying to formulate a new meeting schedule so that I knew when to appear at the designated meeting spot. I once had an employer who constantly sent terribly degrading and critical emails to the entire staff and then wondered why moral was low. He would often follow these attacks with an even more demeaning email saying that we were all stupid and that email doesn’t have emotion. This is, of course, a bunch of bullshit. Written correspondence can be absolutely full of emotion and underlying meaning. Even something as simple as “how much longer” can obviously be misconstrued. I find the careful editing of my correspondence and subsequent investigatory work on the response of others to be exhausting. So from now on, if you need to communicate with me, do so in person or by telephone. That way, when I tell you to “take a hike” you will know whether I mean that we should go for a walk together or I am telling you to piss off. Until tomorrow. R.