Chilly morning; leaves bouncing; sun like a distant forest fire; pots and pans to the Mission; Highway 80 East; incarcerated females; blue and copper tinsel; hidden post offices; my little road; murder at the local high school; devil worship at a California pre-school; "Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras!"; blur of blue and white; distinctive grumble of flat tires

Another chilly morning, in which the atomic clock registers 44 degrees on the outside and 67 0n the inside.

The wind is not brisk but akin to a flutter. The leaves bounce at the edges of the limbs.

The sky is Lawrence Durrell's "hot nude pearl." But the sun appears low on the eastward horizon like some very distant forest fire. And only extends a few degrees above the horizon.

Thursday in a moment of obsessive compulsive activity, I gathered up four more plastic tub of dishes, pots, pans, odds and ends and took them off to Gateway Rescue Mission off of Highway 80. And I always have to hunt for it. I know the approximate area, but look away for a second, and you'll miss the drive. Drive is too fancy a word. It's more like a pot holed, partially graveled, which actually looks like used cat litter, path that even the most confident mountain goat might have second thoughts about. But us homo sapiens, fearlessly weave out way to the unloading dock avoiding sink holes and sharp metal objects.

Last time I talked of Highway 80 west; this time I'll mention Highway 80 east. Slightly more upscale. Pawn shops; payday loan places; cash for car titles; check cashing; auto supply stores; fast food restaurants; a couple of Chinese buffet places; some grocery stories and banks; mobile homes retailers; a satellite facility for non-violent incarcerated females in what used to be The Congress Inn. A busy flea market.

One of my favorites is a used car lot with a perimeter of strung electric blue and bright copper metallic tinsel. Gaudy, it may be, but I rather like it.

The local post office that is almost impossible to find. It is set back from the street between an office supply store and a mobile home seller. If you don't know it's there, you'll go by it. There's a post office further east that is even more difficult to find. The highway is marked by a median, and there is single turn. The post office building is down considerably below the level of the road. BOTH places need a sign a few feet from the highway that screams "POST OFFICE."

My little road is another mile or so to the east, directly across from the entry way to the local high school. The one in which the student appeared one morning and opens fire. But only after killing his mother at home. And there was considerable news devoted to a supposed secret band of Goths of which he supposedly was the leader. His two scummy lawyers snuck a video camera into a jail interview, then sold the footage to a tabloidal tv program.

As I recall, devil worship and sacrificing small furry animals in front of tiny children was never mentioned. Oh, wait, that was a case in southern California about a pre-school that went on for years and was depend on the ravings of two psychotic parents who were convinced there were caves beneath the school.

And child counselors across the nation talked of hearing similar stories. Later a study was done, and it was not possible to document one actual case.

Which only goes to show that the people who treat the people in need of counseling may also be people in need of counseling.

There is a most telling Latin phrase for such situations: "Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras!" Oppppsss! That's not right. It translates to "I forgot to polish the clocks!" The true phrase is "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes" - "Who shall keep watch over the guardians?" (Luvenalis) (Don't assign a fox to guard the henhouse.)

The road in front of my house also happens to be the quickest north-south corridor to several locations. So at least once a day, police cars whiz by in a blur of blue and white. They are much more colorful at night.

At the intersection of Highway 80 and my street is a discount tire store. So at least, once a day, I'll hear the distinctive grumble of a car with a semi/flat tire headed in that direction.

PAX!