Vertigo...

. . .
One day, probably around 1985, when we were all living happily ever after in Hanover, I decided to go pick up the kids at school instead of having them take the bus. This was usually a good idea anyway, since Adam was a target of extreme cruelty, and Bizzy was his protector, a tough job for a kid not yet ten.

It was a pretty day, fall or spring (I don't remember), and when I rounded a corner on the curvy road that led to the school, I came upon a small work horse trotting down the yellow line. Not having much experience with horses, I just informed the principal when I got to the school. He dove for the phone, mumbling, uh-oh, looks like the Sweats' horse got out again (Sweat? that's a real name?). I got to add it to my repertoire of stories, along with the one about the guy whose vision improved on a prescription of 20 joints per week. (Some other time.)

Most of the time, when I think about death, I think of it from a distance, as if I get to tell that story, too. In fact, I think I'm managing the last years of my life with conscious attention to making it a good story. I think I'll succeed, too.

May
. . .