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Well, we’re back in NYC tonight after a week in balmy south Louisiana. On New Year’s Eve, my wife and I left Young Master with his grandparents, and spent the evening here. As it turned out, to both our relief and chagrin, Young Master didn’t seem to miss us a bit, and actually stayed up later than we did, to shoot fireworks at midnight with his cousins. The kid is three! What old coots his mom and I are. We did have a grand time earlier in the evening drinking with innkeepers Pat and Laurie Walsh (well, I was the only one who drank, but Laurie mixes a swell Manhattan), and trading hilarious stories about town eccentrics. Like I keep telling Yankees, Flannery O’Connor was a realist. Anyway, the Tigers lost, but I’m over it, and I came back with my backpack stuffed with an old dog-eared Robertson Davies novel, and several packages of frozen boudin, both of which will be mighty warming Friday night in the ice storm predicted for NYC. What a treat not to have to think much about the world for a week. That’s what vacation is for, innit?



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