A one-hop red-eye from Seattle to JFK to Syracuse delivered us–splat!–into
Hancock International Airport yesterday mid-morning. With a stroke
of good fortune (what some would call a blessing), Is. slept for the
entire route, but the rest of us are still returning to shape from the weakened
and dismantled lumps of exhaustion we were transformed into. In the spirit of
slowly rebuilding, yesterday early afternoon I dropped Ph. at school (on his
insistence), retrieved the dog from his generous caretakers, and later chased
down a meal’s worth of groceries. The grocery trip:

Since early March I have been experiencing what I can only explain as "dairy
cooler" trauma. That’s what happens when, upon returning from some time
out of town, you gather up fresh groceries only to realize that the milk (soy,
organic whole, etc., whatever dated stuff you consume) cartons are all up in
your face with expiration dates that foretell another trip (or deadline, as may
be the case) on the horizon. I withstood another such milk aisle assault
yesterday when the cartons all bore the date I will be leaving (in appr. two
weeks) for Albuquerque. On the bright side, it beats drinking curdled whatnot.
Although it would be nice if the milks would lay off.

Today, after a meeting with one of my committee members about more or less
successful Chs. Zero and One, and after I few errands, which included replacing
a cell phone whose display has been on the blink (i.e., has been blank) for ten
days, I stopped through a different grocery store for a second consecutive day
of one-meal shopping. After offloading the foodstuff, I wheeled the empty
cart toward the corral, where an old man was gathering them. He said, "Thanks,"
as I rolled the cart toward him, and then, "Hang in there, okay?"

Okay. Strangely nice to hear, and when I least expected it.