Patience, children

A cold front roared through Birmingham this past weekend with the strongest wind gusts the DePaul's have seen since hurricane Ivan stomped ashore last September.

The worst winds were on Saturday night, which is noteworthy only because about that time my muse blew into, as they used to say in wrestling (or rasslin, depending on your preference), "parts unknown." Every night since then I've put a bowl of milk out on the patio for her, hoping when she finds her way back home she'll know I missed her.

She's disappeared before. Usually she wanders off right after I've committed to a project where I need to muster all the creativity I can squeeze out of whatever corpuscles creativity rides around in. Just when I'm about to panic and renege on my promised output, she whispers in my ear, and I write, and all is well. I've learned to be patient with her, and I ask you, dear reader, to do the same.