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Letters from the Home Front

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I owe someone a big apology. Several months ago I was running. I call it running, anyway. More correctly, I was attempting to give at least the appearance of forward movement, certain that between my stylish runner's attire and a breathing pattern suggesting I had just reentered the atmosphere in an unpressurized cabin, passers-by would mistake me for a serious athlete. Arms flailing, I was once again trying to navigate my way around the five-mile recreation path that encircles our local water treatment reservoir. In San Diego we call these "lakes." And as I attempted to achieve at least one glorious moment when neither foot was actually touching the ground while remaining fully focused on my game of "count the expansion joints," I happened upon a group of young men engaged in a construction project. "Maybe they are building a water fountain!" I hoped, just as a group of moms pushing double strollers breezed past me. And then I realized what wa...