My Own Bed, My Own Sweetie, My Own Dog

I am home again, though not without the requisite future-sources-of-anecdotes. In fact, this whole last week will doubtless become a long anecdote: Ah, Yes, I remember the summer when Avocado's summer camp got hit with unplague and I slept on a couch for six nights...

( Cut here for length and tedious travel stories... )

Oh, Hell

Walter Cronkite has died. He was 92, and had been increasingly frail. Still, it's utterly suitable that he died on the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission--he was a passionate believer in, and advocate for, the space program.

I remember watching the CBS Nightly News every night with my mother: all the news that I got about the turbulent, crazy years I was growing up, I got from Walter Cronkite. I think Lyndon Johnson once said that if he'd lost Cronkite, he'd lost the nation--he had that kind of impact. And when Cronkite showed emotion--when John Kennedy died, when we walked on the moon--you knew it was a story. Nothing less would have licensed him to "editorialize".

The world's a little smaller and poorer.