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Cape May

Nothing Ever Happens On My Blog

Our bookshelves, ourselves

A recent foggy morning I was in the car driving down my street to an early meeting when I saw my 99 year-old neighbor pull out in his car just ahead of me, heading , no doubt, to an early morning meeting himself. No matter how groggy I was, I had to smile, glad that I finally figured out that the way to keep track of his age is to realize he is exactly 50 years older than I am. (It took me living on the street 10 years or so before I computed that–and I got a 4 on A.P Calc–must have been a mistake). But as he sped away in front of me,  I was bemused by the unlikelihood of the prospect that in 50 years I will be pulling out of this driveway and driving myself to an early morning meeting. Impressive, sir!  Plus this guy tells pretty good jokes. I can’t ever remember a joke to re-tell it.

Of course, I don’t have any expectation of where I’m bound, other than to more meetings. I don’t expect there ought to be meetings in heaven–just in hell, so there is that to consider. But since according to a Roanoke College study on religion in Virginia, 47.9% of believers think their pets will be with them in heaven, I have been forced to reconsider the whole heaven/hell conundrum: who is picking up the poop in heaven? And will there be earplugs?