I'm on my way to Florida to present at a conference in Boca Raton. Apparently in preparation for the heat and humidity in Florida, the driver of the shuttle bus from the parking lot to the terminal had the heat turned up all the way, blasting us with hot dusty air for the 10 minute ride. I could park in the airport garage since I’m only going to be gone one day, but after having had my car stolen from the garage a few years ago I never park there anymore.

While returning from a visit to the airplane lavatory, I noticed that the flight attendant had her Emergency Manual out. The book looked maybe 500 pages long. I’m just hoping that in the event of a real emergency the index in the manual is complete, easy-to-read and printed in very large font.

Tonight I have a dinner invitation from a couple of people I work with who will be attending the conference. My natural inclination is to say no and stay in my room, substituting reading for socializing as an accompaniment to a room service meal. I will override that proclivity and instead see if I can learn one interesting thing from my dinner partners.

Yesterday while driving with Rebecca I managed to smash a chipmunk quite flat. I tried to slow, not wanting rodent guts on my car, but it became confused and froze in perfectly fatal alignment with my tires. Earlier in the day we found that the field mouse who had been caught in my headlights the other night as I pulled into the garage must have been enormously scared, because it apparently dropped dead in its tracks. I have become the grim reaper of rodent death.

Last night, as I was driving along the Pennsylvania Turnpike heading home from the movie, I saw a sign that said “Harrisburg 85 miles”. It was difficult to overcome the temptation to just keep going. The skies were clear and the traffic was light and I felt a strong urge to drive away into the starry darkness. I didn’t, of course, because that would involve abandoning everything that is core to me and it would be so far outside the tenets of my life that I couldn’t manage it. I could, however, imagine it.

Dreams: I was in the house of a woman who used to be my secretary. Ramona was preparing dinner and we were getting ready to eat. There was a knock at her door and a group of three or four people came in who were from some organization that wanted me to join them. They sat down in Ramona’s living room as if they belonged there, and chattered on about the group they were a part of. I was stunned that they would do this in a stranger’s house, especially around dinner time. They all wore brightly colored and patterned clothing and the women wore hats that appeared to be their Sunday-best. Ramona appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and appeared surprised and slightly irritated that these people have invaded her home. And now, here I am sitting on the plane next to a woman who looks as if she could have stepped directly out of that dream, hat and all.