How many Gollys does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Seven.

One to arrive by Greyhound from New York Freaking City and regale us with tales from the cranberry bog in Buzzard's Bay; go to Lowe's and pick out the right kind of junction boxes, plugs, wire caps, and outdoor cable to reconnect the power between the house and the garage, suspend the far end from a pine branch with a ceramic insulator and a bicycle tube, and connect the near end to a new outdoor receptacle mounted on a corner post of the pergola; cut holes in the plaster wall and ceiling upstairs to remove, repair, and re-install the stairway light fixture, snake new wires between the rafters to connect the hanging lamp with two new three-way switches, and run wires down through the wall to the new switches at the top and bottom of stairs; go out with his sister and her friends to their favorite watering hole du jour; bring the grandparents up to date on his latest adventures in trade school and prospects for gainful employment. 

One to hand him tools, flip circuit breakers while he tests all the outlets and fixtures in the house, and label what outlet is on which circuit; climb the white pine to hang the cable, fetch a stepladder, caulk the boxes; tear out an upstairs closet wall to get to the switch box; start a cozy fire in the den; pour the libations appropriate to the season (rum, coffee, pale ale, white wine); bring the patriarch up to date on his latest adventures in the reorganized church of latter-day educational publishing and prospects for continued gainful employment. 

One to consult on the proper placement of screws, staples, and wire; compliment the hostess, inquire about the garlands of cayenne peppers hanging over all seven windows in the den, drying for future use in bean soup as well as adorning the holiday festivities, and settle into a comfortable chair to work on the crossword puzzle, and finish his biography of Oliver Wendell Holmes; carve the turkey, say grace, compliment the cook; tell stories about life on the farm in Minnesota, his five brothers and sisters, his parents and grandparents, and being stationed out west during World War II; take everyone out for breakfast the morning of their return home. 

One to bring a blueberry pie and consult on the roasting of the turkey, stuffing, etc.; inquire about the yoga studio, the bookstore, the cranberry farm, and the textbook business; knit a few rows, read a few pages of her biography of Mark Twain, express her condolences on the loss of our cat and dog, inquire whether we going to get another pet any time soon; compliment her grandchildren on their most recent accomplishments, insist on helping clean up after every meal, and utter not a single complaint about her own faltering hearing, eyesight, or mobility. 

One to drive from Atlanta, GA, to Cumberland County, TN, to central Swingstate (and back again) and accompany her parents to the home of her brother and sister-in-law (and in spirit); generously augment the supply of seasonal libations with top-shelf stuff; find time for one-to-one conversation with each person in attendance, bring her brother up to date on administrative downsizing at her university, a death and a birth in her own immediate family; enliven dinner-table conversation with an account of her recent work-related trip to Spain; wash dishes after every meal, and be all-around good company.

One to pop in after a long, exhausting day at work to have a piece of pie with her extended family, after working all morning making not one but two outrageously delicious apple-cranberry pies before work; reprise her acclaimed role in the last ten Thanksgiving feasts by making awesome garlic mashed potatoes; spend quality time with her aunt, grandmother, grandfather, doting mother, adoring father, and spirit her brother away to hang with people their own age when it gets late and the old folks are tired. 

One to clean the house and cook for her own family plus her husband's parents and sister: turkey, sausage stuffing, gravy, sweet potatoes au gratin, brussels sprouts with caramelized onions, fresh organic cranberries shipped directly from Mann's family farm in Massachusetts, rolls, spinach salad, white wine, and arguably the best pumpkin pie on the planet - with your choice or real or nondairy whipped topping - working around unplanned interruptions due to thrown circuit breakers for the benefit of Jessi Electric and his intrepid team of electricians. 

We're not high-culture, just high-calorie, high-voltage, and high-maintenance. 

Dear friends/colleagues/countrymen

unentitled autumnal screed

Watch out for the Mad Men.

They say Milarepa, the Tibetan poet, was a wild and crazy guy in his day (eleventh and twelfth centuries). They say he killed some people, then went through a deep remorse for his actions and worked even harder than others to get outside his self-inflicted predicament to find peace of mind. They say he had an ear for music and he made up songs to help him remember the things he was taught. He was one of the Mad Men of his day.

So, short of poisoning 30 people at a party and redeeming yourself by meditating for the rest of your life, what is 'madness' anyway?

This week I had the pleasure of becoming better acquainted with the songs of Bertholt Brecht, who was perhaps a little bit mad himself, but in the modern sense sometimes romanticized as the archetypal politically Angry Young Man. Germany between the wars was not a pretty sight, I'm told, and people with their eyes open, like Brecht, had a bone to pick with the emerging political economy, so they wrote songs with titles like "There's Nothing Quite Like Money," "German Miserere," and "Ballad of Why Human Effort Is Always Futile." Happy stuff.

Maybe madness is nothing but excess. Excessive anger or giddiness, talkativeness or silence, eating and drinking or abstinence, work or rest, acceptance or criticism, lethargy or activity, deliberation or decisiveness, mobility or stillness, discipline or laziness, patience or impulsiveness, questioning or answering, complication or simplicity, attraction or repulsion, contact or separation. Excessive use of commas. Excessive cheese consumption. Excessive list making.

Like an imbalance of the humors, it's being a little off-center to the point where other people think you have a problem.

Madness itself is a rather old-fashioned term. The psychological profession has come a long way, and the vocabulary for labeling the continuum from 'sanity' (mental cleanliness) to 'insanity' has grown with it. Thanks for Dr. Freud and others, we have an abundant and varied menu of conditions such as neurosis, psychosis, paranoia, schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder, and many more to choose from. May you live in interesting times.

What do you call the sudden awareness of your own condition, when it hits you that you have no escape hatch, no way out of a predicament of your own making, and all of your best-laid plans for turning things around have no chance of realization? When you see once and for all that your adversaries are correct, and you are, after all, completely inadequate for the task you are attempting. There must be a word for finally facing the fact that one is guilty of all the shortcomings others have found in you. In short, you are doomed.

I call it optimism. In spite of being unfit for everything now on the horizon, the closing of one path could be the perfect opportunity to re-invent oneself in a different environment, under a new regime, with a brand-new title, an altered persona, and a different attitude. At least outwardly. A chance to make connections with a new set of people, to hear what is on their minds, and to reconnect with other people whose situations have also changed.

Sometimes people do re-invent themselves, like Don Draper did when he came back from Korea wearing another (dead) man's dog tags and made a decisive break with his unenviable past. Others just lower their standards when they find out that they've been trying to land a fish rated 10 when they only have the bait and tackle to catch a 7 fish. Maybe 'lower their standards' is too harsh; maybe 'refocus' is more accurate.

If I always wanted to be editor of the New York Times AND teach journalism at Columbia, while raising goats on the roof of my coop in Central Park West, maybe it's appropriate to use my current midlife crisis (my third) to adjust my game plan and aim a little, uh, differently. When I grow up, I wanna be a production coordinator and teach a class at the rec center, and grow cayenne peppers in the backyard in Methodistville!

Dicycling

I'm thinking of getting some accessories for my bike. A light for visibility, a helmet for safety, and maybe some fuzzy dice for that statement to the world that establishes a unique identity, a distinctive persona, a brand if you will. Then all the world will see what a ramblin' gamblin' man I am.

Yeah, no. I do need a light on occasion, and I'm pushing my luck if I go much longer without wearing a helmet, even though most of my riding is done on bike trails and less-traveled roads. But there are always factors that one doesn't control - along with a few that one does control - that bring an element of risk and unpredictability to the otherwise safe, serene, and self-reliant activity of cycling. Riding is a game of chance.

It's a roll of the dice, for example, whether the wind out in the country turns out like it seemed when I started out in town. I always check wind speed and direction before I decide whether to go north, south, east, or west. In spite of MacKenzie's First Law (go out with a headwind, come back with a tailwind), there have been times when I rode for an hour, turned around, and inexplicably found myself coming home riding, like the venerable Motor City rocker Bob Seger, against the wind.

At other times my level of conditioning betrayed me, and the ride back from halfway across Licking County was a long, slow grind. In those cases, I have no excuse. You have to train if you want to go farther. Where there are hills involved, the oxygen debt of biting off more than my cardiovascular system can chew makes mountains out of central Swingstate molehills, and the muscles won't do what the mind tells them to do. Then I struggle up even the mildest hills in first gear and use the next downhill to recover. That's pushing your luck.

In moderation, of course, pushing one's limits can have beneficial effects. If I did that three or four times a week, I would get stronger and chug up those same hills in sixth gear. But I don't train consistently, so when I hit the wall it can get dicey coming back. And that's the slippery slope a casual cyclist rides on, letting days go by between rides, losing the aerobic edge, and making every extended ride a gamble.

Gatsby in Ohio

There is a beautiful spot in the middle of a cluster of office buildings across the road called Easton Oval. My building is on Easton Commons. I was looking for a place to take a walk and decompress and discovered a little park in the center of the elliptical street that connects the buildings bearing the logos of Huntington Bank, State Auto, Elmer's Glue, and other regionally based companies that have bought or rented space in the complex within a complex just inside the interstate perimeter highway around our fair city.

The captains of industry who made the decision to locate at Easton Oval were wise to move their money-making operations to such a verdant place. It's a humane way to arrange multi-story office building full of workers sitting in cubicles looking at monitors, because they can go outside on their lunch hour and take a walk along the gravel paths meandering through the oak, beech, and hickory trees. This time of year leaves cover the ground, and you can barely make out the path, and lots of sunlight filters through the branches. I'm looking forward to seeing how it changes in the next few months.

As nice as the weather is this week, I'm surprised there aren't more people out enjoying it. In the half hour I was there, I saw half a dozen pairs of walkers and one maintenance guy checking the sprinkler system. One end of the oval is designed more geometrically, like a downtown park, with benches arranged around a circular walkway. The rest is just a patch of woods that has been there for a while, preserved by smart architects. The breeze would be chilly if you stopped moving and sat in the shade, but the sun is out and it's perfect weather for walking.

I'm just glad to have a place to go in the middle of the workday and breathe. All those mature hardwoods are more than willing to absorb the carbon dioxide coming in from cars on I-270 and connecting streets. I'm happy to join them for twenty minutes hanging out between earth and sky. The egg-like name and shape of this oasis in the midst of commercial sprawl just adds to my appreciation. I'll have to re-read Scott Fitzgerald to get a better sense of what it was about East Egg and West Egg that drove Jay Gatsby crazy. Then I'll try not to do that.

The elusive flaming pear

I brought a pear in for lunch today because we were out of bananas. It's yellow, rather than the usual light green, with a slight pinkish blush, so it stands in well for my daily banana. I also have a woodblock print of a pear by my desk that I like having around, along with family photos, a jovial little wooden troll from Minnesota, and other visual artifacts that help make a cube a habitable space.

Not everything has found its place in my new cubicle environment, and that, like the relocation to a new office itself, will take time. The pear theme, however, stands a good chance of continuing, even when I get back to the daily banana.

My wife Gven Golly is the pear person in our household. She can be counted on to buy pears in season at the grocery store, and they're always in season somewhere, aren't they? Pears from California, pears from Argentina, pears from New Zealand, maybe even the occasional pear from - gasp - Ohio. Does anyone grow pears commercially in central Swingstate? If so, do they look as pretty under the lights in the produce aisle as the cosmetically enhanced, genetically engineered variety that's shipped as containerized cargo from some far-off trading partner? Probably not.

Today's pear is d'Anjou, and the bar-coded sticker on it says "USA/E-U" (estados unidos), which tells me it might have come from some temperate place in latinoamerica. The sticker has an image of a mountain next to a giant ladybug next to the word 'Stemitt', all of which is code for some hemispheric operation that I can only wonder about and guess at. Okay, Ladybird Johnson's family owns a division of United Fruit that grows pears on a plantation in Uruguay, and their marketing people had fun with the play on the words 'stem' and 'summit'. No?

Week 2 in the new location has now come and gone with remarkably little turbulence. The usual comparisons with the old location are inevitable, usually saying more about the speaker than the place itself. And my own cubicle microcosm has not radically altered either, with only a few images tacked on the cube walls: a randomly found poster of Bookwus Mask by Beau Dick [1992. Red cedar, paint, feathers, horsehair. 43.2 x 38 x 51 cm (17 x 15 x 20"). Northern Heritage Art Co., Ltd., Tucson, Arizona], a calendar, a department phone list, photos of my family c. 1956, 1973, 1985, and 2007, and the pear print.

When Gven and I were courting, one of our early dates was a trip to the High Museum in midtown Atlanta, where there was an Asian art exhibit that quickly got our attention. The most memorable work was a painting titled The Elusive Flaming Pear that was both beautiful and hilarious. Something about it spoke to both of us - quest for enlightenment, mystical transformation, chance encounters with the unexpected, fresh fruit - and the phrase stuck.

The one on my desk, while just a bit overripe and not exactly flaming, is still delicious with a bit of baby Swiss cheese. Bon apetit!

RE cycling

I took the plunge this morning and rode le Trek to work at the new office. It wasn't much of a leap of faith, since I had ridden the eight or nine miles down the Alum Creek trail many times on weekends, so I knew more or less what to expect. This was just the first time doing it in work mode, so now I know empirically that it can be done.

Although there was almost no wind, the morning air was, shall we say, brisk. Hat and gloves were necessary, not optional. Ten degrees colder would have made it a tough ride; ten degrees warmer and I would have had to change into the spare T-shirt I brought just in case.

The creek was very high, so the trail was flooded where it dips under Schrock Road coming out of Methodistville. Once I had dodged traffic to cross Schrock, it was clear sailing south, except for the oblivious grandmother in the minivan turning right onto Cooper Road, who breezed right through the red light without looking. Close calls with idiot drivers like that show me that I really should wear a helmet.

The other close encounter occurred a couple of miles down the trail where it winds through woods and parks. As I careened down the leaf-covered path, I startled a couple of deer having breakfast on the creek side of the trail. The buck was pretty big and sported a rack of antlers with maybe eight points. Other than birds and squirrels, the only other wildlife in evidence was a tall young woman running with her dog in Casto Park just north of highway 161.

What I love about this trail is its avoidance of roads and traffic. After winding a few blocks through residential streets, I'm by myself without cars and stoplights, save for crossing route 3 at Cooper Rd. and then Sunbury Rd. at Easton, then a few blocks coming up Easton Way to the office. The middle seven miles is glorious solitude, except for grandma and deer. Which begs the question, what will the weather be like on the way home? As George Carlin, the hippy-dippy weatherman would say, "The forecast for tonight - dark."

untitled seasonal stream of consciousness

Let's connect some dots and see if anything hangs together. It's moving day at the office, Halloween in the suburbs, Samhain in the forest, All Saints Day in the Church, el Dia de los Muertos en Mexico, and the end of Daylight Saving Time in the U.S. of A.

So what?

It is time to turn a corner. Take a look back and move resolutely forward. Put the nonhardy plants like spider lilies in the cellar for the winter, because we will have a hard freeze before you know it. The patio looks naked without them, but I want them to live and bloom again next year.

It's also an ideal time to get up on the garage roof and sweep off the leaves and pine needles, scoop the wet gunky debris out of the gutters, and liberate it all to the flower beds below. All of which was a tangent to the original task of replacing a sheet of metal roofing that blew off the shed more than a year ago in Hurricane Ike. Now it is nailed down nice and tight.

It was clear and cool today, so the wet sticks I stacked yesterday had a chance to dry, but you know that clear sky will make it colder tonight, so the dry kindling will come in handy starting the first fire of the season in the stove tonight.

The moon is full and very bright.

Gven and I ended a satisfactory Saturday of mowing, weeding, and breaking of sticks for kindling with a hearty meal of brots and a salad, with pauses to give out candy to dressed-up Methodistville street urchins on All Hallows Eve, one of the few times we have both been home to enjoy that neighborhood ritual. Tonight she made eggplant parmesan, which was perfect with bread and red wine.

The Yankees are beating up on the Phillies in game 4 of the World Series. I did catch one electric moment when Pedro Feliz took Joba Chamberlain deep, but I think the Yanks have too many horses.

Instead of going to church or open meditation this morning, I ended up at Jersey Universalist Church in rural Licking County, a tiny congregation I visited infrequently several years ago. I love the setting, for one thing, just off the old highway 161 at the edge of the village of Jersey, Ohio, east of New Albany, nestled in a grove of pine trees surrounding an old cemetery in front of a cornfield. About 12 people showed up for a service consisting of readings and open-ended commentary from the Book of Daniel. The imagery of Nebuchadnezzar's dream was fascinating: head of gold, chest of silver, belly of bronze, legs of iron, and feet of clay mixed with iron. I might have to visit again to discern its mystical meaning(s).

Afterward I drove up Mink Road to Jug Street and east to Alexandria through some of the prettiest rolling countryside in central Swingstate, then west toward Methodistville on Central College Road, confirming my desire to bike that way some time. But when will the stars align, giving me three hours on a weekend with good weather?

Tomorrow I'll drive Hank the Ranger southeast instead of northwest and park myself in a different cube in a different building among a mostly different cast of charcters. Should be interesting to see how it plays out.

Apex Update

My son and I communicate pretty well if only sporadically. I'm a spore and he's a radical. Our conversations don't always follow a conventional template, and that might be a good thing. We have a lot of history, some difficult but most of it very positive. The lines are open. This post attempts to make up some recent lost time.

Last month Jessi finished his construction skills course at Apex Academy, a trade school in New York City. The final phase, Electrical II, was his favorite part of the program, and the teacher, Mr. Neese, was the best of the lot. Mr. Neese also taught one of the plumbing courses, which Jessi also liked. He did well in the theory classes and in the shop. He has always been a good student and a good test taker, and he thrived on the combination of theory and practice with tools and materials.

They learned pipe bending and wired circuits and electrical panels using different kinds of cable, such as Romex (two- and three-wire cable in plastic sheathing) and armored (also called metal-clad, or BX because it was invented in the Bronx). They installed switches, outlets, and lights according to code.

In the week or two between the end of school and the start of cranberry season, his band, Hey Baby, was extremely busy. They began sharing a new practice space in Brooklyn with two other bands, and that required assembling amps, speakers, a PA, and drums. The space is more readily available than their previous space, and it looks like a good arrangement. They played shows at DIA Beacon in Beacon, NY, at Don Pedro's, and at Tommy's Tavern in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

The first week of October, Jessi and friends went up to Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, to start work on the cranberry harvest at Mann's Farm. Once again this year, the seasonal workers have a house to live in right on the farm, and the living situation seems to agree with him. They put in long days picking, cleaning, sorting, packaging, and shipping berries to customers. Some of it is in the bog, and some of it is in the shed. I gather that they work hard and play hard too.

Gven and I have big plans for the prodigal son when he comes home for Thanksgiving - bearing a box of berries, we hope. We have a couple of house-renovation projects - including wiring, flooring, and a bathroom - that are currently on-hold awaiting someone with his skills and creative problem-solving ability. This is not a test, but we are eager to see what he can do.

Retreat

A few examples of an imperative sentence:

Go into the forest for a couple of days, even if it costs a little money, and sleep in a sleeping bag on an unfamiliar bunk in a dormitory full of relative strangers. Live by an altered, imposed, and accepted set of boundaries. Wake up at 5:00 to the sound of a bell, followed by chanting, drumming, and another bell. Be silent until breakfast at 7:30. Sit as much as you want. Take a break, then sit some more.

When you're not sitting, go outside in the crisp October air and walk down the trail to visit the bald eagle, the red-tailed hawk, kestrels, barn owls, barred owls, and turkey vultures that are sheltered at the Raptor Center. Do a taiji form on the brick fire circle just outside the kitchen with your morning coffee, then do another one after dark while the stars come out.

Go for a serious hike down into the glen, across the bridge, past Helen's Rock and Pompey's Pillar, and take a drink from the yellow spring that gives the town its name. Walk along the top of the ridge, down some steep steps, and closer to the creek. Mind your own business, just like the other hikers - young, old, and in between - mind theirs. Get a little bit lost, and find out by accident that the trail loops back to where you came from. Take off a layer or two and cool off.

Help with lunch, then help clean up. Collect enough kindling to get a fire started after dinner, and sit around talking with four or five other people while the fire burns down to coals.

When it's time to go, pack up your stuff, help clear the rooms of furniture, and mop the floor. Take a detour into town, and since it's such a nice day, take a bike ride up the paved trail, stopping to fix a flat tire on the way back, thankful that you brought a spare tube and a hand-pump. Recover from that little adventure with a sandwich and coffee at a little place on Xenia Ave.

Drive home and do a couple of chores because the back yard looks so welcoming.

Isabelle

This one won't be easy.

That was the start of a blog entry dated almost three weeks ago, then sat unfinished and barely begun. The sweetest cat in the known universe died at the foot of our bed some time during the night. It was painful to watch, though we knew it was coming, and it is painful to recall now. So I will not dwell unnecessarily on her long, slow decline or the strange sight of her blank open eyes near the end as she labored to breathe.

Izzy and her brother Gus joined our family on my daughter Zelda's seventh birthday in 1991. We lived in Grandview, and our previous cat, Big Louie, had been hit by a car while crossing Northwest Boulevard. We buried Louie in the tiny back yard of our double and started looking for another cat. My running partner MacKenzie's tabby had kittens soon after, and he and his family were generous enough to let us have not one but two longhaired picks of the litter, the orange male and the black and orange tortoise-shell female.

Gus and Isabelle moved with us to south Alabama that summer and helped make our little house on Brook Lane a home. A year later they moved back to Columbus with us. Zoe bonded with Gus, sometimes wearing him draped across the back of her neck like a fur collar. My favorite thing was to lie on the floor after a run and cool down while Isabelle took a nap on my chest. Good times those.

The prime years were the ones we lived in a big brick house set back from High Street surrounded by an acre of pine, spruce, poplar, and maple trees with lots of wildlife. It was cat heaven and not too bad for humans. We acquired a dog during that time, and it took awhile for Gus and Izzy to accept Dali into the club, but eventually they came to terms.

Our move to Methodistville was relatively smooth for the animals, and each of them claimed their favorite places in the smaller house and yard. Now all three are buried in the back corner, just inside the fence on high ground under the cedar trees. Gus went first, and Isabelle was a wreck for maybe a year, crying day and night for her brother. Already losing weight and strength, she became much more needy and feeble but lasted another couple of years on sheer pride and stubbornness.

The question of another cat or dog has come up naturally. I think we will take our time with that and just let the house be empty of animals for awhile.

Turn the page

New job, new cast of co-worker characters, new set of acronyms and idioms to go with the new subculture of production. New kinds of problems to try to solve, new chaotic situations out of which to bring order. I've been an editor for so long, it had become burned into my identity, and officially at least, I'm not an editor anymore. We shall see how readily I shed that skin.

It seems like a lot of changes are happening all at once, because they are. The star wheel is turning from summer to fall, and just today the pine trees were shedding their golden needles like crazy. It's a downer in a sense, gravity and the receding sun's rays doing their thing, but I love the look of fresh pine straw on the ground.

The cooler temperatures are not harsh just yet, so the cold is not a problem either. Wear long pants, put on a sweater. It gets dark pretty early, so there will be no more eight o'clock bike rides deep into Delaware County with plenty of time to loop back home while the cars can still see the green flash of light that is me on le Trek.

I'm starting a new job in a different department of the same company, although the "same" company is morphing into a whole new starship publishing enterprise, so the department I was in for almost ten years will not be the same old department much longer. Even if I wasn't the new/old kid on the second floor, it would not be business as usual. Good news or bad news, you tell me.

I chose to disappear from the fourth floor quickly rather than make it a long, drawn-out leave-taking. It's not like I'm leaving the company or the big small town that is Central Swingstate. I just need to be here now rather than dwell on where I am not.

The plus side of not making many close connections with people at work is that when it's time to move on and call it a day, there are fewer attachments to break. I know that sounds harsh, or a lame rationalization, or fair-weather friendly, but it's not intended that way. I'm not the jilted boyfriend who says, after the fact, that he never really like her anyway. I'm more like the survivor of a shipwreck who washed up on a desert island and lived a good, long time on the nearest beach, in no small part because of help from the other inhabitants of that island. Now another tempest has washed me out to sea, and I'm learning to live on the fruits and nuts that grow on the next island.

Since I did not choose to make this particular move at this particular time, I have less at stake in its being the absolutely best thing ever to happen. Even an intentional change of situation has only an even chance of success: either it will or it won't work out to my advantage, however that is measured. As it says in the middle school math book, just relax and do the best you can. When the next challenge, opportunity, or long strange trip comes about unexpectedly, it's not all that different: I don't know where this story is going, but I will do what I can to make it go somewhere good.

That's just the thing. Being ejected from my comfortable seat in Editorial Land after all these years might just be the best thing that ever happened to me. Yeah, like it "happened to me" and I had nothing to do with it. I probably sowed the seeds of this departure/exile/deportation/ostracism many times over. Paraphrasing that most revered and respected of elder statesmen, Trickie Dick Nixon, they won't have Sven Golly to kick around anymore.

If anything, I'm anticipating a whole new professional adventure, and in the Joseph Campbell sense, you don't pick your adventures, they pick you. So I'm game. Let's see what kinds of trials and tests, temptations and traps, hidden helpers and hoodwinking hindrances lie in wait.