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WE ARE BACK, DEAR READER, to overcast skies. This entire day, mournful clouds were ready to weep at a moment's notice (though sobbing was stifled at least until after nightfall). The gray threatening weather was conducive to an extended time of lovely lolling, however.

While the yard man sat on the sofa reading his tale of the life and rise of Barack Obama, I lay on the floor* and asked questions. Of myself, mostly. Now, lest you suspect it was self-introspection** in which I was engaging, Reader Dear, I'll take away that notion by quizzing you with some of the very same questions I asked myself:

"What word for 'slight error' would fit in seventy-five down?"

"What's a minuet-like dance starting with G?"

"Hmm, if 'shanty' doesn't fit in ninety-seven across, then what?"

And then there was this: "Now that Garrison's finished rambling on the radio, which CD should we spin?"

The yard man harrumphed when I tried to get an answer from him for forty-seven down, but he did have an answer to the musical question. I had an answer, too, and it was Nabucco.*** When I set the Chorus of Hebrew Slaves to playing, I told him, "You know this is one of my very best, A-plus, five-star, all-time favorite pieces of music!"



"Oh," I said. "And, by the way, I really like it."

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*(It was deja vu )

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**Yes, I know perfectly well, Reader Dear, it's redundant. I liked the sound of it, that's all:
self-introspection, as though it were possible to eavesdrop on the brain of another!)
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***Opera by Verdi

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