I was up early this morning and had my first cup of coffee on the porch. The streetlights turned themselves off one by one down Terrace Avenue, as though someone walked to each of them and snuffed out their flames with a long pole. The lake was bucolic this morning. On the other side of the lake, from the shoreline and up the terrain, there are rich pastoral greens. Bucolic is a word I like. It sounds like a brand of English tea. I walked to my old job (now new). My first day back.
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“With you working so late at night, I rarely got to talk or see you except for when something went wrong, or when you got locked out of the building,” Roy Paterson (my boss) said, as we sat in his office as I filled out some papers.
“It was hard for me to work those late-night hours.”
“Well, I’m a firm bel
