Glimpses

The weather this week has been pretty incredible, even by Chicago standards, a string of 70-degree days followed by all-too-generous servings of the cold we associate with this time of year. I liked the warm part better. On Tuesday, I took the Schwinn out and made my way to the lakefront. The 23 miles with the wind—or gale—at my back were great, the 23 miles with the wind in my face, not so much. There were times I felt like Benny Hill on his bicycle, peddling without moving an inch. But at least I didn’t keel over. It gets dark early now (thank you, America’s farmers), and by five it’s already past dusk. That said, I could hear the ping-ping-ping of the kid three houses down, hitting off a tee. He looks to be in eighth grade, or maybe freshman year high school. I hope he gets a chance to play come spring. Between COVID and Governor Pritzker, you just don’t know. My daughter won’t be playing, for reasons totally beyond her control, although that hasn’t stopped her from calling about the White Sox, a team that seems to be making all sorts of news these days. Clare isn’t a fan of Tony LaRussa, but she does like Jose Abreu, your 2020 AL MVP. “I’ve got an autographed picture of him,” she informed me last night of a promotion she won for world’s best tweet, or something. Clare wanted to go hitting Saturday, just as soon as she’d transferred all the files off my old computer onto the new one. Oops. Apparently, I’m working on a machine so ancient the transfer can’t be done with a zip drive. So, stuff had to be sent to the Cloud, and that meant walking it up, one file at a time. Long story short, we didn’t have time to go hitting, The dear one is supposed to come over again tomorrow to get my stuff out of the Cloud and into the new pc. If it’s not too cold, too dark or too late, we might go hitting. Fingers crossed.