Three days ago, Rebecca and I walked into an old building that now houses an antique business. Its wood floors had just been polished. It was a second or two before the familiar lemon smell reached my nose. 

A day later, sitting on our front porch, talking over our September trip to Scotland, we heard the first whistle of the fall football season. 

Yesterday, a neighbor, who teaches high school history, lumbered by with Rome, Greece, the 13 colonies, or maybe all three in his backpack. 

I taught for half a century and learned to love seeing students’ backs and fronts. That’s something underappreciated about a teaching career. The routine prepares you for depletion and renewal. 

Repeating the lessons of fall and spring, nodding off and early rising, and season four of Ted Lasso.

Something every good teacher and Bob Dylan know: if you’re not busy being born, you’re dying.

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