Log Entry: November 22, 2003

It is 40 years ago today that John F. Kennedy was shot, and like most people my age, I remember right where I was at the time. In another 40 years I will be 93 and, in the unlikely event that a chain of synapses can still work its way into whatever small clump of gray matter that contains today's record, I think it likely that what I am doing right now will be as vivid as any memory I retain.

The temperature must be near 70 degrees, with a light but steady breeze out of the southwest. I know it's warm because I've been sitting here reading for nearly an hour, and the chill that normally penetrates these unpadded bones so easily is nowhere to be found. I am sitting on a charming little dock on a deck chair kindly left behind (or carelessly forgotten) by the former occupants. The water, more blue and calm than one would ever find on a sunny August Saturday afternoon, is about a yard from my feet, its flat surface nicely textured by the breeze and sunshine off to port.

About 20 minutes ago, a man and boy and dog puttered by in a fishing boat and, away off in the distance, I can see the sail of a boat whose skipper must think himself as fortunate as I.

There are very few cars along the Lake Road, and every so often I can hear the conversations of people and dogs on distant shores.

Lest you think that my strong streak of hedonism (which I rationalize as genetic and therefore not my responsibility) has totally won out, be it known that I spent the morning gathering up the sodden clumps of leaves that settled into the corners of many stone walls, changing hard to reach exterior light bulbs, rolling up rather clammy garden hoses, and generally doing the preparations for winter that most households stretch from before Hallowe'en until Thanksgiving.

And there is also the fact that I sit here alone with my book and my pens and my thoughts. This has its pros and cons, which only time and understanding can resolve.

But this is a fine place to wait and see.

Come visit.