In the two-word phrase of the immortal Phil Rizzuto, “Holy Cow!” About 90 minutes ago, I posted a column, a relatively short one consisting of a brief update and an old, undated journal entry. In the update, I used two words that appear, based on emails and texts I’ve received since, to have caused great and grave concern.
Those two words were not “cancer diagnosis.”
Those two words were not “paternity suit.”
Those two words were not “suicidal ideation.”
The two words were separated by a comma and were part of an eight-word phrase describing the folks I’ve met with during my trip south: “friends, attorneys, reporters, and a bunch of drunks.” Friends and bunches of drunks aren’t the issue, but the two words in between them seem particularly powerful.
Before my friends, family and bunches of drunks have a meltdown, let me offer assurance that I am in no trouble, legal or otherwise, and that the conversations with reporters are related to the Tiny White Box, writers’ retreats and my plans for the future—not to any legal issues. The conversations with attorneys were completely hypothetical, and in one of them we spent way more time discussing warfare tactics used by the Romans than the hypothetical. Regular readers will not be surprised we also discussed the history of Durham, NH, the Washingtonian Movement of the 1840s and 50s, and the importance of the First and Second Great Awakenings.
I do apologize for conjoining two words that together seem to have such power, but I’ll admit to having a blind eye and ear to some things. Now that we’ve all calmed down and had a nice cup of tea, let’s just enjoy the weekend. Sam (is a dog) and I are looking forward to returning to the deer, the cold and the Tiny White Box.