Quieting

As the days grow shorter and shorter, the air chillier, the nights darker and colder, out come the sweaters, wool hats, and boots. Most of the old housing stock in this city has no central heating, making for drafty cold seasons. Everyone around me has been sick lately. Today we've added a humidifier.

This mundane reportage may not rock your world but it pretty much sums up my day. When picking out a (cheap) humidifier qualifies as a highlight, you know you won't be making the ESPN reels any time soon.

I've become aware of a withdrawal urge lately, to turn inward and avoid unnecessary stresses in the outside world. I read, write, paint and cook; drive kids here and there, stand at the sidelines of their practices or in the back rows at their recitals.

Exchanging pleasantries with other parents is a comforting part of this quiet routine. But driving is increasingly scary around here. The state law preventing drivers from holding their cellphones to their ear hasn't kicked in yet, and every time I go out it seems some idiot pulls or turns suddenly and sharply in front of me. There's the invariable lurch as I brake, honk the horn loudly, and curse.

For blocks afterward I can be heard muttering one awful word or phrase after the other. By the time I've calmed down, it's probably about to happen again.

The city law banning plastic bags from grocery stores is in effect, however, and already we have much less plastic blowing around the Mission's streets.

But, along with all the good books I've read lately, I bought one that turned out to be exceptionally bad -- an academic treatise composed by one who routinely uses 30 words in a sentence, when eight would quite suffice.

All the wordiness serves to do is render the author's points unintelligible. Not everyone should write books, it says here in my waste bucket. Nor should everyone drive.

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