Dinner at Frenchy's

Tampa, Florida

I notice that the days are growing shorter. After the strokes, the cute blond Jewish neurologist asks me some key questions to judge my loss of cognitive ability. I count backwards from 100 by sevens for her. No problem. "What season is it?", she asks. Momentarily stumped, I offer Spring as a tentative answer. "Was it hot when you came in?", she wonders. "It's always hot in July in Florida", I tell her. It's still hot in mid-September.

Now I practice answering the question of seasons. You won't catch me again. I believe that the season changes on the solstice and equinox. Soon it will be Fall... I think. The sun will sink below the Equator. I have faith that it will return if we make the proper blood sacrifices in the dead of Winter.

Two of my college students, Steve and Mike, go to dinner with us at Frenchy's on Clearwater beach. They bring along Argie and Jill, wives and old friends and two of Steve and Jill's lovely children. The restaurant overlooks the Gulf and sits on a wide white sand beach. We sit on the patio and watch the incomparable Florida sunset.. The live band is a Johnny Cash sound-alike...

Because you're mine, I walk the line

We stoke up on she-crab soup and pina coladas...on the way back to the car we practice lowering our voices and singing...

I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die

It's always wonderful to reconnect with old friends.