In Love with France, At Home In Italy

So here we are standing on line at the Post Office. We're going to be here for a while, so my favorite Eudora Welty short story, "Why I live at the PO" comes to mind. (If you haven't read it, I hope you will. And if you can hear it read by the author herself, in her inimitable Jackson, Mississippi voice, even better!) But now, back to the topic at hand. There's a handy sign posted overhead to remind us of the day, date and time. Let's have a look.     Wednesday, November 14, 11:50. Sounds good, except that today is Monday, and last I noticed, it's actually July 15. "Well, at least did they get the time right?" asks Jim, a glass-is-half-full kind of guy. Nope. My watch says 11:30, and it's always set fast to make up for my lack of punctuality. How do I know I'm in Italy? The clientele offers a clue. Where else would you see patrons like these? And in what other PO could you buy Dan Brown's new book, ...

Huh? Even though you probably knew I was bad at math, you may be saying what's she talking about? For a start, I am recognizing that although I turned 66 on December 25, this is my 5th birthday year in Orvieto. Here's the sequence of events that culminated in the rough night that produced these musings. Getting ready to leave home I was not entirely recognizing myself in the old woman who actually had it together to go to her tap dance class the very morning of her flight, but when her son heard about it, HE did: "Mom, why should you be surprised? After all, by going to Italy, you are going to your second home." He was the smart one who had figured out that his transition-averse mother might be able to travel without freaking out, if it meant going from one nest to another.     Lessons from baseball The poetry of baseball is as old as the game, and literary evidence of the desire to return to home base goes back to the Greeks and beyond...