Glancing up at the clock on the wall above my computer, I take note of the time. It's 2:00 am but I'm wide-awake, cruising the internet aboard the Jolly Roger, "flagship of Grungeservative Renaissance"

Visiting Carmel-By-The-Sea two years ago, we strolled leisurely past the windows of the small shops, enjoying the spring afternoon and the quiet, ordered elegance that is uniquely Carmel.

Autumn arrived a few hours ago. Carlsbad Beach, if not as crowded as it was three weeks earlier before the commencement of school, remains host to summer's remnant tourists, the last wave of visitors to roll through this resort town before the beach returns to the locals.

As Harmon Park, where I learned to hit and field, where I played and ran, and in whose folds I sought refuge from the anxieties of a troubled home, is a ghost.

Many decades ago I had the opportunity to hike to the top of Yosemite Falls with six or so fellow Point Loma Nazarene University students. We were accompanied by one of our teachers, a scholar, and professor of Biblical Theology and Greek.

Most of us old enough to remember can recall exactly where we were on November 22, 1963, and the moment we learned President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas shortly past noon.

So about 4 months ago (before quarantine - remember those days?) I go to a ramen place on Temecula Parkway. I'd recently begun eating more vegetarian, a little vegan here and there. On the older side now. Have to take care of the "temple".