The train whooshes in and pushes air into the station in front of it. My hair flutters into my eyes on the platform. And I just got it cut! The “Tube” is like a straw. The train fills the “tube” and pushes a column of air ahead of it. That “tube” of air is forced out—like blowing through a straw. When the straw gets much bigger at the station, that air “whooshes” out of the tube and bathes the station platform in divine wind. Some tunnels are 160 years old.

Time travel. The ghosts of workers and passengers from impossibly ancient times are in the air.

The Underground air.

The steel rails sing a song. A rattling rumbling speeding sometimes screeching metal on metal.

How many routes exist unchanged? Efficient in the 21st century.

“Whoosh!”

“Rumble.”

My hair flutters for a few moments ahead of the train rushing in.

“Mind the gap!”

The world’s most common phrase used to be, “Close cover before striking.”

In London, many have heard, “Mind the gap,” their entire lives. Likely their great grandparents as well.

The history of the London Underground began in the 19th century with the construction of the Metropolitan Railway, the world’s first underground railway. The Metropolitan Railway, which opened in 1863 using gas-lit wooden carriages hauled by steam locomotives, worked with the District Railway to complete London’s Circle line in 1884. Both railways expanded, the Metropolitan eventually extending as far as Verney Junction in Buckinghamshire, more than 50 miles (80 km) from Baker Street and the centre of London. The first deep-level tube line, the City and South London Railway, opened in 1890 with electric trains. This was followed by the Waterloo & City Railway in 1898, the Central London Railway in 1900, and the Great Northern and City Railway in 1904. The Underground Electric Railways Company of London (UERL) was established in 1902 to fund the electrification of the District Railway and to complete and operate three tube lines, the Baker Street and Waterloo Railway, the Charing Cross, Euston and Hampstead Railway and the Great Northern, Piccadilly and Brompton Railway, which closed during 1906-1907. By 1907, the District and Metropolitan Railways had electrified the underground sections of their lines.

Tuesday

A week exactly since I got here. The phone says I took over 130,000 steps in London. By the time I get out of bed and make my way to Heathrow, that will be higher.

This last morning, there’s time to kill. Writing in bed is a good use of the time. I transposed a dozen or more poems from two legal pads I brought with me. Some of the writing goes back to last September. That pad’s last pages were filled. Even the cardboard backing to it had a long thing written on it in ink. So, those pages can be relegated to the “Done” milk crate in my bedroom. A chore long put off accomplished.

I need to pack. That shouldn’t take long. I didn’t buy much. A hoodie. 2 t-shirts—one a gift—an “Old Sport” Great Gatsby souvenir. The other from the William Morris house in Walthmstow. Some tea—actually 3 tins and a box—all from Harrods. A few food treats I’d never find in the US, also from Harrods.

Then it is a short walk down Praed Street to Paddington. I’ll pass under the window to the lab where Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin.

It was a wonderful trip after the inauspicious beginnings. I visited new sites. I revisited places I haven’t been to for years. I hit my favorite haunts. Several of those more than once.

I am ready to go home and face the never-ending story of books and gardens. I won’t mind the long daytime flight. Perhaps I’ll get a lot of writing done. I hope so. At home, avoidance is so easy. So many chores and distractions. Excuses. When it comes down to it, there should be no cheap excuses. It should be the predominant activity. Because when you get down to it, there’s nothing more important I could be doing. Whether the words outlast me or not, at least I’ve tried.

And tried.

Monday, my only reservation was for Westminster Abbey. You can’t just walk up and get tickets. When I went past last week, the sign read “Sold Out Until Next Week.” I went online, and indeed that was true. Yesterday, Monday, my last full day, was the first available ticket I could get. Why I signed up for entry between 2:30 and 3:00 (1430 and 1500), I don’t recall. Seemed like a good idea at the time. So, my day was focused around being in Westminster at 2:30.

I looked at my London map for spaces I hadn’t covered. East of Kensington Gardens was a void in this trip. I recalled visiting the Leighton House years ago. Before COVID. So I took the Tube to the High Street Kensington Station and surfaced to follow that eponymous road. I noted on the map that I would pass the Design Museum. Most design museums disappoint me. Lots of “stuff”—little context. But as I passed, I saw they had a Tim Burton Exhibition on. Much of what he’s done turns me off. Nightmares and corpses… Those are fine in horror scenarios. But I’d rather not have them invade Christmas or Alice in Wonderland or even Willie Wonka.

Time to give him an academic viewing.

Tuesday morning

On board the Heathrow Express. The nonstop train from Paddington Station to the airport.

There were no steps or curbs from the hotel to the train. There will be no stairs at the airport. My big heavy pull along bag makes that appealing. It is heavier than when I arrived. I didn’t buy much. Certainly nothing heavy—like books. I should learn to travel light.

Maybe it’s the shoes.

Another beautiful day. Spring. 65 degrees. There’s been no rain during my stay. I feel invigorated. Ten years younger or more. No aches. No sore feet or ankles. My eyes are focusing well.

Maybe I should move to London.

The train begins rolling out at 6:09. My laptop never adjusts to local time. It is always Maryland time. My phone tells the truth. 11:10 London time. 15 minutes to the airport. An extra 5 to Terminal 5 where the international flights are.

How I love this city. I think I did it justice. Regrets? I could have taken in another show or concert or two. But by the time I got back to the hotel for happy hour at 6, I was too exhausted to try. 20,000 steps a day takes its toll.

Still, I shoulda.

Train tracks are all alike in cities. And suburbs. The backside of old warehouses. Scrub. Debris. The occasional backyards of homes. Unlike New Jersey or eastern Pennsylvania, these yards are neat. Well-kept lawns and gardens.

They don’t check tickets anymore?

They scanned my ticket to get on the platform at Paddington. They’ll scan it again when I disembark.

Tears over the Atlantic.

A Complete Unknown.

The soundtrack and philosophy of my early life.

My first life.

When he was away, stealing up to my decade older brother’s garret room at 36 Washington Highway in Amherst, New York.

I’d put the Dylan albums onto his stereo.

He’d be angry if he knew.

I knew the world was changing. Frightening. Enlivening.

The words. I understood them. A nine, ten, eleven-year-old kid.

Forbidden fruit.

Ambrosia. The nectar of the gods.

Was I really there?

Yes. And by extension, with my brother. Ten years older than I. He emigrated from the University of Buffalo to New York City. There he and his childhood buddy, Andy Kulberg, threw themselves into the music revolution there. He played with Al Cooper (who helped electrify Dylan at the infamous New Port Folk Festival, which changed music forever.) Or at least as forever as these 60 years have been.

Now looking back, those days are legend.

Those after schools in Jimmie’s garret room are legend too.

The times they were changing.

And the lineage through Woody Guthrie and Dust Bowl ballads and The Grapes of Wrath and the line back from there to Scots Irish balladeers in Appalachia singing of dusty memories of across the ocean.

The ocean I’m flying over now.

An Old World. To a New World. To the world where infinite knowledge is in my pocket in 2025.

“Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline. Remember me to one who lives there…”

And now my race is almost run. A life on the sidelines. Scared to step on stage lest I fall. And maybe a fear of success. If it was modest success, THAT would be failure.

“I can’t go home this way. No, I can’t go home this away…”

They brought me a meal. I was south of Reykjavik. It was a VLML meal. (What’s that? Vegetarian Lacto-Ovo.) I remember ordering vegetarian online weeks ago. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought they might take more care with it.

“Did you order a VLML meal?”

“I thought vegetarian…”

“Was you seat originally 22A?”

“Yes.”

“This is yours.”

It was delicious actually. Creamy rigatoni.

Do they put drugs in the food to make you sleepy?

Four more hours home.

“The light I never knowed… we never did too much talkin’ anyway… Don’t think twice its…” Ok.

It’s cold up here in the sky.

My dad was raised by 19th-century parents. How could they absorb rockets and nukes and boys growing their hair long?

“When my ship comes in.”

“Look out, the saints are coming through, and it’s all over now, baby blue.”

Wednesday 5 a.m.

Home in bed. It feels good. Giles is melted into the bed next to me. He was thrilled when I pulled into the warehouse dockyard where he was dropped off in the pen there.

“Sit. Sit! SIT!”

When he saw the tailgate of the SUV was open, he raced to it and leaped in.

The flight home was smooth. It helped I had a row to myself. The plane appeared half full.

For all my complaints about bureaucracy and government rules, the technology employed by Customs in Dulles airport was amazing. With my body on record with Global Entry, I literally walked right through customs, only pausing for a moment to look into a glowing plastic 6-foot monolith facial imaging machine.

“You’re good,” I was told.

I continued directly into the baggage carousels. My passport never came out of my backpack. No slow down. No questions. “Do you have anything to declare?” is not asked anymore?

Amazing.

Then I had to wait 45 minutes for the luggage.

The drive home was long. There was a lot of traffic on 15 north of Leesburg. Maybe it is all the development going on. That highway cannot be widened.

When Giles and I got home, all he wanted to do was go inside. He went right to the water bowl. I guess the big stainless bowl of fresh water at the warehouse wasn’t as good.

A bear had knocked over the big blue recycling container. It must have smelled good. There was nothing in it.

I unpacked some. Washed the dirty clothes and socks I’d brought back.

I drained and opened a can of Genova tuna into a bowl. Shook some dill relish, chopped cherry peppers and mayo over it. I ate it with crackers while watching Perry Mason.

It looked like I left in a rush. A mug half filled with tea had some mold atop it. I took it out and poured it over some potted plants.

Then into bed. I read a few pages of the John Dickson Carr 3-novel omnibus I’ve been reading. There were only 40 pages left, but I didn’t want to carry the big book in my luggage.

The merry month of May has blown by. I left on May 12th. Got back to the house just before May 21st.

The phone says it will rain all day and night.

The driveway is a mess. It is covered with forest debris. There’s a lot of yard work I’ve got to do. There’s a lot of all kinds of work I’ve got to do.

I worked so hard to get away. It doesn’t look like it here. It won’t look like it at the warehouse either.

Before I left on Saturday and Sunday, I plowed through so many carts. I made efforts to clear as many of the “static” carts as I could. The static carts are laden with things I’m not sure what to do with. Others made the same determination before me. Once they gave up, my name gets put on them.

One surprise was this drab green cloth covered paperbound thing.

There was no lettering or decoration on the outside. It had a flap over the front edge. When I opened I was surprised. Arabic? No, maybe Persian? Done by hand? The calligraphy looked too perfect. A Koran? I flipped it over and sought the title page at the “back.”

Here’s what Google came up with about the image:

The provided text appears to be in Arabic. A translation of the text is as follows:

Page 1:
Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, Master of the Day of Judgment. You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help. Guide us to the straight path, the path of those upon whom You have bestowed favor, not of those who have evoked [Your] anger or of those who are astray.

Page 2:
This is the Book about which there is no doubt, a guidance for those conscious of God—Who believe in the unseen, establish prayer, and spend out of what We have provided for them, And who believe in what has been revealed to you, [O, Muhammad], and what was revealed before you, and of the Hereafter they are certain.

These passages are the opening verses of the Quran, specifically Surah Al-Fatiha (The Opening) and the beginning of Surah Al-Baqarah (The Cow.)

Ahhh…

By Sunday evening, I’d made a lot of piles of boxes.

Monday was a getaway day. Of course, extra chores crept up. I had to drop my leaking Explorer off at the dealership nearly 20 miles east. I got a text a prescription was ready 8 miles north. Dulles doesn’t want you to just drive up to the parking garage anymore. They want you to sign up for a membership and reserve a spot. Garage 1 is my routine. If I park there, I’ll know where to go when I return. A QR code was deposited in my Apple Wallet.

It is 53 degrees outside. The world is a lush green outside my bedroom window. The mountain laurel is in bloom.

That’s a Kousa dogwood I planted below it. You can see some of the acres of hay-scented ferns in the background.

Back to London.

Last week’s story ended with Gerry returning to Boston for his son’s graduation. (He texted he had returned to London yesterday! Right before I took off.)

Friday, I was on my own.

After the story was sent across the Atlantic to my editor, I headed out walking.

I hadn’t walked down Edgware Road for some years. It is lined with a lot of Middle Eastern restaurants and shops and shisha (water pipe smoking) bars. The preponderance is Lebanese cuisine.

The road ends at the northeastern gate to the sprawling Hyde/Kensington Park complex. The Marble Arch was buried in scaffolding. There were no speakers at the Speakers’ Corner. I wonder if there ever are anymore. In England, you can get in a lot of trouble voicing an unpopular opinion.

So strange…

I continued down the eastern edge of the park along Park Lane. Across that furious multilane divided road, the buildings are filled with high-end car dealerships, fancy hotels (like the Dorchester) and other expensive tenants. When I finally got down to the southeast corner, I considered touring Wellington’s mansion—Apsley House. I’ve never gone. I don’t know why. I’m sure it’s cool. Next time.

You can’t cross Park Lane. Too busy. You must walk under it. Then it was up Piccadilly along Green Park (where Buckingham Palace is set on the far side) and past the Ritz Hotel. I cut into the side streets to explore the shops and to get away from the heavy traffic. I found myself on Jermyn Street. It has always been a narrow tailor’s lane off the beaten path. There are still plenty of bespoke tailors and shoemakers. When I first took the kids to London, the older boy needed some fancy clothes. In we went, and he got fitted up like it was a hundred years ago.

I turned south toward the river. It is all downhill on Charing Cross.

It was after noon, and I was thirsty, so my destination was the Sherlock Holmes Pub. The cask for the Sherlock Holmes Pale Ale was empty, so I tried the Dr Watson’s Amber Ale.

More walking…

There’s an alley next to the pub. It leads to the narrow Craven Street. There are markers on five of the ten or so houses there. Herman Melville, Heinrich Heine, Rudyard Kipling and Ben Franklin lived here.

Where to?

The river is very close.

I turned south and headed through the long narrow garden complex along the Victoria Embankment. Every 50 yards or so, there’s a statue planted.

William Tyndale caught my eye. Rising so high, he made me squint in the just after noon sun. There was a little stack of booklets propped at his feet.

It is about him and the book he made. The first English translation of the New Testament from the Greek. He died a martyr in Belgium.

“Thy word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path.”

Further down, I cut through Horse Guards and to St James Park. I sat and watched the swans and pelicans in the long pond there.

More walking… up through Mayfair, past every brand of fancy shop you could think of. Dior, Laurent, Vuitton, Chanel… And many English shops are so exclusive that their only location seems to be here.

My goal was Liberty. It is a medieval-looking building housing a 5 or 6 or 7-floor department and craft store. I was hoping to find memorable toys for the grandchildren.

It is a marvel, but the toys had been scaled back in lieu of children’s fashion.

Down and out and around the corner to Carnaby Street. Now pedestrianized, it was bustling with shoppers on a Friday afternoon. I knew Shakespeare’s Head Pub was near and popped in for a pint.

It was now late afternoon. I had dinner reservations, and so I descended to the Underground to get back to the hotel and freshen up, rest and changed.

Back to Piccadilly Circus, through the crowds of tourists from every corner of the world as well as plenty of Brits. Up Greek Street to my new favorite London restaurant. L’Escargot has been in Soho since 1927.

I fell for their snails when I was last here.

There are a half dozen big escargot in their shells beneath that tree pond scum. The green stuff is butter, garlic and lots of chopped parsley. I nearly groaned with pleasure as I ate and mopped up every drop with bread. Wine. Mussels, goat cheese… It is a beautiful French setting. Lots of white linen and mirrors and white painted woodwork. When I finally surrendered about 8, I walked back down Charing Cross and into the Portrait Gallery. Then back out to see the sun glowing on St Martin’s in the Fields.

22,000 steps.

Saturday, I had more grand plans. I had reservations for the Warner Bros. Studios way up north in Watford.

But first I took the train south to Pimlico and walked to the Tate. They’ve added a little Blake gallery, but mostly I was there to visit old friends—mostly pre-Raphaelites.

Back north to King’s Cross. There, I had to figure out which train would take me to Watford Junction. It was aboveground rail service, which is not my usual mode of travel. Bit of a learning curve there. In about a half hour, I was out in the sun in a parking lot and boarding a Harry Potter bus.

A good number of the riders were dressed in black student gowns and sweaters and other Potter garb. It was a fifteen-minute shuttle to the studio. You must book tickets ahead of time supposedly. The ticket on my phone was shown numerous times to prove I had a reservation.

Harry Potter… a book phenomenon of the 1990s and early 2000s. My kids grew up on them. My friend Barbara was also an acolyte.

All 8 movies were filmed here. The young actors virtually grew up here. School, birthdays, puberty…

When the kids were visiting London in the 90s, my youngest, Joey, was 7 or 8. He carried a huge hardcover edition of the first book everywhere. Brits would comment on the street about such a little boy carrying such a big book. Later, when I was driving south of London, I’d have to admonish him, “Put that book down. That’s Stonehenge over there!”

I wasn’t that enthralled with them, but I went along because… suddenly all the kids in the world were waiting for the midnight release of the next book.

I liked the movies and anxiously awaited the release of each new one. We’d have to go on the first day. I’d see them twice. Once with the family. Once with Barbara.

The studio buildings are vast. Original sets and costumes and behind the scenes and interviews with anyone involved were everywhere.

It was overwhelming.

I enjoyed it but achieved sensory overload after about 2 and a half hours.

The train took me back to London. The hotel was just a few tube stops away.

I crossed over to a nearby pub. The Dickens, I think. Had a cask ale. Back to the hotel to read and rest.

21,000 steps.

Saturday was another epic adventure.

I’d never been to the William Morris House in Walthamstow. That town is at the very end of the Victoria Line. Yet another venture into terra incognito on this London trip.

I left the hotel early in order to squeeze as much into the day as possible. I like traveling on the Underground. I understand it. You can go from point A to point B, and there’s no chance of going awry. It was a long journey to the end of the line. Once there, it was a 20-minute walk to the Morris House.

I was early. It wouldn’t open for 40 minutes. Fortunately, it is set in a park. Gardens in May bloom. A “moat” with ducks and coots paddling in the scum with their babies trying to keep up. The gardens had some interesting plants. I took pictures of some, thinking I might try to find out if they are available in the US. A miniature Solomon’s seal, for instance.

When the museum opened, I entered William Morris’s front door and asked for a ticket.

“It’s free.”

So many museums in London are free.

I made my way from room to room, following Morris’s life. He seemed split between social protest—he was a proto-socialist—and the design and decor business. I love the pre-Raphaelite art movement. The characters, though idealized, seem so alive. My favorite room was, of course, the Kelmscott Room.

There’s something about a vellum-bound Kelmscott publication. “Alive” again, I guess.

Then it was time for football (soccer.) I had a ticket for West Ham versus Nottingham Forest (gotta love that name—a real place!) But the game, located in what was the Olympic stadium, was on the eastern side of another Underground line. To get there by Tube, I would have to go all the way back to the city and switch trains just to go east again. I checked the phone, and it would take an hour and forty minutes to walk. I remembered Gerry’s affection for buses. I pushed the bus icon on the phone’s direction finder. (It gives the option of driving, walking or public transportation.) This map came up.

Daunting. But it appeared if I just stayed on the 97 bus, I would get to the station close to the stadium. There was a stop for 97 a few blocks away—just past a Hindu temple.

Several other bus routes share that stop. I kept looking for 97 above the windshield. When one came, I tapped my Oyster Card (the public transportation “credit” card you can add money to at any station.) It charged 1.75 British pounds, I think. A bargain. Up the stairs on the double-decker bus, and I was on my way.

I hoped.

I had no idea if there wasn’t something wrong, if I wouldn’t end up in Canterbury or something. But no, stop after stop matched what was on my phone. And then I was there! A new skill learned. At my age!

I was early, so I walked around the stadium. It was the last home game of the seasons for “Irons” (a nickname for West Ham United whose early history was focused around blacksmith and ironworkers in the neighborhood.) They were known for their vitriolic support and hooliganism, though the move to fancy huge stadium has calmed some of that. Oddly, their anthem (all big British soccer teams have a song the fans can sing along with. Liverpool’s is, oddly, “You’ll Never Walk Alone”) is “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.”

I scored a front-row seat near midfield—I guess there’s an advantage to being a single sometimes.

The Nottingham fans were segregated in a corner. Police were on every few steps to keep them safe. They were outnumbered 20 to one or more.

The Tube ride back to the center of the city was easy. I got off at Charing Cross and headed to the iconic Gordon’s Wine Bar. I managed to get down the narrow stone steps to the “Cave” and ordered a “beaker” of sherry. Sherry is a specialty there. The amber liquid was drawn from a cask of Amontillado!

Monday was my last day. The only firm plan was a 2:30 entry to Westminster Abbey. I looked at the map to see where I should go. I chose west. I hadn’t been to the Leighton House for years. It wasn’t a long walk from the High Street Kensington station.

The Design Museum is on High Street Kensington. Design museums don’t usually interest me much. They seem to lack… context. The giftshop fronts on the street, and I walked past it.

“What was that?”

They had Tim Burton stuff for sale in the window. There was a Tim Burton exhibition. Most of his stuff doesn’t do much for me. Too many living corpses and weird takes on iconic stuff like Alice in Wonderland. I do like Edward Scissorhands. Mars Attacks is laugh out loud funny. It was based on a trading card series.

It was fun… and very weird. The permanent collection seems to lack… context.

On to the Leighton House. Though he coexisted and was friends with pre-Raphaelites, he wasn’t one. More “Classical” I would say. It was another experience in time travel. The house is stunning in its capture of history.

A pretty long walk back to the V&A via the Albert Memorial and Royal Albert Hall. There was more William Morris there and Chaucer Sleeping.

Then to the Abbey. It was too crowded. Next time, I’ll think ahead and get there at opening. Still, it is a beautiful space. And amazing that so many dead occupants have made so much history.

Then to Harrods once more. Another train got me to a final cask ale at the Sherlock Holmes.

Then back to the hotel where happy hour in the executive provided me with excellent sustenance. I thought about going out to a show. But I’d had another 20,000 plus steps and just stayed in.

Wednesday

Back at work.

It hasn’t gotten any better.

Hasn’t gotten worse either.

Ernest is driving us to Gaithersburg. It is pouring rain. The lush vegetation bordering the Interstate seems like it is closing in over the highway. Along some stretches, it is like driving through a wet green corridor.

There have been some changes in the store’s expansion since I went away. I’m excited to see them. Also, I’d like to get things wrapped up, the major things, so I don’t feel the need to get down there so often.

There’s so much to do.

My “to do” list is over 20 items long. Those are special things that I may not remember. The routine things are in my face constantly.

Now it is Thursday morning. 5 a.m. I’m still pretty much on London time. All three dogs are in bed with me. Pip coughs gently periodically.

It is cold and rainy. 52 degrees. The high will be 60. It will rain all day again.

But with three dogs pushing on me, I’m pretty warm.

I’m trying to figure out the best use of my day.

In Gaithersburg, they’re coming to install sliding glass doors on the new bookcases. We will be able to fill them with fragile or collectible books. Yet another part of the transformation of that store.

We just extended the hours there. We are now open to 8 p.m. every night.

We are trying to draw more people into the shopping center. There are a lot of restaurants there. Many more nearby. Plenty of free parking.

We are also trying to promote its proximity to the Metro’s Red Line Shady Grove stop.

My visit there yesterday was a little disappointing. The dreary rain didn’t help.

The contractor had raised the ceiling near the entrance. It doesn’t feel as cramped as before.

But there were messes near the front and on the counter. My instructions about keeping the entrance clear and displayed with beautiful books had not been followed. I wandered through the store, and it seemed that the transformations I envisioned had not been realized.

My fault. Going away. I wasn’t there to keep on top of things.

When I got back to warehouse, there were thousands of books waiting for me.

And problems.

I stayed til 5 doing carts. It felt like 10. I was still on London time.

I’ve made the dogs’ food. There’s a big mug of Harrods tea next to me. I brought back 3 tins and one box of tea bags. I like loose tea, but the prep can be a distraction. I’m too “environmental” to dump the spent leaves in the trash. Taking such a tiny amount out to the garden doesn’t seem worth it. In winter, I can dump them in a flowerpot. All the pots are outside. 250 tea bags—should last awhile.

It is Friday back in Maryland. The workload Wednesday and Thursday were overwhelming.

There was an unusual golden dawn this morning. I wonder if that means something.

At least it has stopped raining. When I got home last night, I weed whipped the stone steps and the overhanging redbuds along the driveway. I only had 10,000 steps. In seven days in London, I took over 130,000 steps. The day of the long train ride to Harry Potter ruined my average with only 10,000.

I hope things dry out up here. There’d so much debris to blow off the paved surfaces.

The perfect spring weather has made things extremely lush up here.

The laurels are beginning to fade. I should hike up the glade tonight.

Should… so much to do.

I have an appointment at 9 to look at a member of Congress’s estate. The family was considering tossing the books until the real estate agent told them about me. 45 years in town, and Wonder Book is still unknown.

I “wonder” what I will find.