The American Spectator

br> Her thunders shook the mighty deep, br> And there should be her grave; br> Nail to the mast her holy flag, br> Set every threadbare sail, br> And give her to the god of storms, br> The lightning and the gale! /blockquote> br> We deal with “shattered” and “hulk,” words that apply as well to me as to the old ship. In the midst of all this trouble, I most fear that I will fall. In the shower, stepping down into the garage, getting into my car. I tread very carefully.

For this season, a suntan disguises a lot. My skin takes color quickly. “You look good,” people say to me.

“What does ‘shattered’ mean?” I ask Joe.

“Uhh…big?”

“Broken into pieces,” I say. “What does ‘hulk’ mean?”

“Uhh…I don’t know.”

“A shell,” I say. “What’s left after all the pieces inside are broken.”

An old friend of mine wrote me a wonderful letter, referring to a couple of my columns. “I want you to have a ‘successful’ transplant, regain your health and stamina, and be prepared to raise hell with a vigorous voice.”

Funny. When I flew back from Los Angeles, the plane took a more or less straight route from L.A. to Chicago. On that entire stretch, through the clear sky, looking down from my window seat, I saw…nothing. Demographers say that 80 percent of us live within 50 miles of a coast. I can believe it.

I am less in the mood to raise hell than to get away from its earthly manifestations. Oh, that there were some gale into which I could step with sail ripping in the wind. Oh, Lord, deliver me.