It’s been odd, the mornings having turned murky as of this last Sunday. I must have assumed that dialing up the clock an hour somehow also ratcheted the Earth’s slant also, and the end of daylight savings a little early would echo the usual switch on each end of the scale.
Baton Rouge is shaking off its winter chill (and it’s been a cold one this year, hasn’t it?). Gas, Food, Lodging is in full swing. Tomorrow is the Saint Patrick’s day parade, and while I live pretty much at Ground Zero of the festivities, I think I’m going to forsake the parade proper and just opt to hit a crawfish boil thrown by some friends in the neighborhood.
Last week I started Richard Ford’s The Lay of the Land. Having read both The Sportswriter and Independence Day in high school, I felt some obligation to take on the third installment in the series, even though reviews I’d read were lackluster in their praise. And yet, after only the prologue, I felt like I’d settled in to a comfy chair for a chat with my old friend Frank Bascombe. It’s weird to think that of all that’s transpired in my own personal history since Frank and I last got together. I really think I remember more about this character from when I was 17 years old than I remember about myself at that age. An odd thought to ponder, indeed.
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