I get all my best ideas in the shower.
I've invented things -- like a toaster that butters your toast for you and a cup holder for a walk-behind lawnmower -- and I've solved half of the world's problems.
Maybe it's the water warming my muscles and bones, or the fact that I'm only half awake and my dreams are still jangling around in my brain. Whatever it is, I seem to think better there. And of course everyone sings better in the shower. (That's a habit I gave up as a teen, though. After singing my heart out one day to some song I can't even recall, I left the bathroom in a towel to find company had arrived while I was in the bathroom. They were entertained...

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It took me over an hour to get to work this morning.
No big deal. I left early enough and still made it to the office in plenty of time. And it gave me some time to wonder -- mostly about why nobody has invented a road made just for me.
You know, I could use one. I've been sharing mine with the rest of you for as long as I've been driving and, frankly, there are a lot of you out there who abuse the privilege.
Look: If your car is covered with snow in the morning, spend five minutes brushing it off. You will not drive well if you can't see out your windows. I'm a good driver -- at least I try to be -- and I won't likely put your life in danger. Please don't endanger mine.
And if the roads are slippery, slow down. Leave a little early and take your time...

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I always thought I could fly. Or at least that someday I would fly.
The thought terrified me, frankly, but I remember accepting it as truth. As a very young boy I dreamed of flying. In my dreams, I'd rise from my bed, run down the hall and leap from the top of the staircase. And then I'd fly down the stairs and out the front door. I'd dream of flying through the neighborhood, over trees and homes. I was free. I was right. I was scared.
The dreams were so real that I once arose from my bed and acted out the dream....I jumped from the top of the stairs in the dead of night. My parents heard me tumble down the stairs and found me in a heap on the landing, bloodied and broken up. I still have scars.
I tried again years later...

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I've written about words before.
I've written about how words float around in space for mere seconds and disappear, and I've written how words can't mend the hurt that actions create.
That was a hard lesson for me to learn. I've learned a few more things lately. One of them is that words that hurt don't seem to disappear as quickly as words meant to heal. "I'm sorry" seems gone as quickly as it's uttered. But hurtful words seem to lodge themselves in your ears and in your brain. They stay and nag you. They can even beat you down. And sorries just don't fix that.
They're funny things, these words. They seem different when they're written then when they're spoken. And they're just letters and ideas in space...

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Walter fell out of bed last night.
His wife came to get me at about midnight. She'd been trying to reach her son, but said the line was busy. So she dressed, bundled up and went out looking for help.
I was petrified.
"Come, nice neighbor, I need you," she said. "Come to garage door." And she was gone.
I dressed quickly. I didn't know what I was going to find next door. I didn't know that he'd fallen; I just knew she needed my help. Thoughts that perhaps Walter had died in his sleep or that he'd fallen and broken bones kept running through my head.
Walter's wife led me quickly through the house and to the bedroom, and there he was, sitting on the floor next to the bed. "Hi there," he said.
He wasn't broken or hurt...

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I had plenty of time this weekend to write something here, so my apologies for skipping it. Truth is that I didn't really know what to write, and a simple "Merry Christmas" would have seemed too plastic.
I'll admit that my holiday wasn't quite merry. I spent more time thinking about my regrets and people I missed than I did reflecting on the day. And my mind never seemed to let up.
I stopped by Walter's on Friday night to bring him a poinsettia. I've always heard that poinsettias are the worst gift, but after thinking about it I thought it would be perfect for him. He's been an avid gardner for as long as I've known him, and I noticed how empty his house was of plants the couple of times I've been there...

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I haven't really laughed at a joke since Mitch Hedberg died.
It's funny, because I like to laugh. There's just nobody out there who did it like he did. My favorite comedian died last March. They'd assumed it was heart trouble. I found out yesterday that it wasn't.
According to the medical examiner's office in New Jersey, Hedberg died of "multiple drug toxicity." He had, among other things, cocaine and heroine in his system. That report was posted on CNN's website yesterday.
Everything I've read about Hedberg since his death has painted a picture of a tortured, sad man who wanted to make others happy, but struggled to be accepted. He did everything he could, while still remaining true to himself, to make the world laugh...

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I'm afraid to go home anymore.
Mostly it's the fear of pulling in the driveway and noticing the lights still aren't on at Walter's house. I've stopped and knocked a few times but haven't gotten an answer. I feel like a vulture, because each day I check the obituary page, looking for his name. I haven't seen it yet. But I'm afraid I will.
I've been noticing so many familiar names, though. And it's painful to see life reduced to a few words. Today it's Greyson Mitchell, who I used to call "Doc" when I covered southern Cayuga County for the Auburn daily. He was a good man, and had something too few of us have today: A sense of his past. Well, not just his past, but his entire family's past...

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