And it's not yet 9:00 A.M.

  The bus driver said he'd pick up at 7:00 A.M.   So I was up before 6 because it's a long process to be curbside that early in the morning, and besides, the driver is invariably early, as indeed he was this morning, pulling up to our driveway at 10 of 7.  I'd turned on the TV to hear reports of  the approach of a devastating windstorm and potential power outages.  So my first reaction was to turn on the dishwasher.  Who needs to be in a cold house with a bunch of dirty dishes.  I needed to do a load of laundry, including bedsheets, so I waited until after the fill cycle of the dishwasher stopped and ran, rather walked, downstairs to the washing machine, hoping the laundry could be dried before the sky fell, Chicken Little that I am.
    It's still early.  I am scheduled to participate in a Conference Call at 9:30 this morning from the V.A.  I opted not to be there in person. It is with Palliative Care. Not to be confused with Hospice Care.  The goal is to relieve pain and ease the suffering and discomfort. Through what, I can only imagine, its being an arm of social worker services.  Neither of us is enduring physical pain, and I have not much faith in the healing power of words, not words that people are paid for anyway.  But they make a big deal of it, so we agreed.  Anyway, I have a while before the scheduled appointment.
  The phone rings: a plaintive plea from the youngest who has left his lunch at home.  He says he doesn't need it soon. His lunchtime isn't until 12, he says.  I decide to deliver it at once, before the power cuts out and before the palliative care call.  The driveway is littered with broken branches. I pick up a few of the largest, and toss them down the bank behind the house.  The road to Schaghticoke is clear, if you don't count the garbage cans which are blown over treacherously close to the highway.  I deliver  the goods to the school, and make it almost to my house.  An approaching car blinks its headlights continuuously so I slow down