I have just completed something of a four-day race. I drove by myself for the equivalent of four work days (with some overtime) to spend four hours with a group of people who were present for the some of the most humiliating times of my life. It filled two needs. The need to be alone for a while and the need to chart how much they, and perforce I, were the same and how much we had changed with time and life. I have been several times before, the thirtieth that almost didn't happen, and the fortieth when I discovered my cancer.
The need to be alone was met too. On the way up I stopped and photographed at places I had never taken the time to see in my mad dashes home.
And on the way back I listened again to my favorite talking book. I have read this book about four times and listened to it at least six times now over the years; and every time, I am sorry to have it end. This time the book ended exactly as I pulled up to my driveway at 4:02 in the morning. The book is Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. It gets better every time I read it or listen to it. It made the trip fly. It was written so long ago and it is truly amazing how prescient she was.
Now I find myself wondering as I look at the likes of Obama, Geithner, Barney Franks, and the rest ... Which one is Wesley Mouch, which one Chick Morrison, Bertram Scudder, Cuffey Meigs, and Tinky Holloway?