It was a warm March. Really warm. Low 70s. Sunny and breezy. Just beautiful. All day. For weeks. To Bloomington and back. The VW hummed. It loved those trips. Bloomington was its surrogate garage. All midwestern adventures were locus here. On that beautiful Monday, I dropped a letter in the mailbox on Carson Street. Immediately, I knew it was a bad idea. But it couldn't be taken back.

Thursday, the snow and cold and ugly came. The weather turned with the reading of the letter some 600 miles away. The cold stayed. We tromped to Michael's while the wind pushed us back. Gray snowflakes whipped around, but we found comfort in fifty cent slices and less-than-two-dollar Yuengling. April ground down, ground away. Another miserable Pirates' season was about to begin, punctuated by out of place red jerseys that no one remembers. I remember Jason Bay. He was the hope. The great Pirate Messiah. And then he wasn't. He had that great year in Boston. Did we get anything for him?

The ten dollar radio from Rite Aid crackled out game after game. Lanny's voice was a great comfort despite the outcomes. There was that job down Beck's Run Road. I couldn't tell you the town or much about it now except that it had a lot of no coat on the corners. Three rolls, I think. Dad came and helped one day. We found newspapers there from the '60 World Series. I wonder where those went.

The days, like winter, never seemed to end. I escaped to the highway over and over and over again. Settle in, friend. It'll be okay after awhile. These things take time.