THE UNWELCOME TENANTS

I knew something was wrong with my ear the moment I woke up. There was a faint scratching sound coming from somewhere inside it, followed by what sounded unmistakably like a tiny sneeze. At first I assumed I had slept on the telephone, which was not an especially unreasonable conclusion considering the state of my bedroom. But when I tilted my head to one side, I heard a small, muffled voice say, “Move over.”

There were people living in my ear.

This is not, under ordinary circumstances, considered a medical emergency. Ears are surprisingly accommodating little places, and apparently there is no specific law prohibiting temporary occupancy. The residents had furnished the place rather nicely, too. I could feel one of them walking around, while another appeared to be dragging something heavy across the inside of my ear canal. I was less concerned about their presence than I was about the possibility that they intended to stay.

I cleared my throat and politely asked them to leave.

Nobody answered.

I tried again, somewhat louder, and was rewarded by a series of irritated whispers. Evidently they had become accustomed to the accommodations and were not prepared to surrender them merely because the landlord had finally discovered the arrangement. I considered calling a doctor, but explaining the situation over the telephone seemed unnecessarily complicated. I could already imagine the receptionist asking whether I meant there were people near my ear.

So I resorted to bribery.

I placed a small piece of cheese beside my ear and waited. Almost immediately, there was tremendous activity inside. I heard footsteps, a brief argument, and what sounded like somebody shouting, “There’s cheese!” A few seconds later, the occupants began emerging one at a time, climbing out and dropping onto my pillow. They were very small, badly dressed, and apparently carrying several pieces of furniture with them.

They gathered on the floor, looked up at me with considerable resentment, and then marched toward the hallway. One of them stopped at the door and pointed accusingly at me, as though I had somehow violated their privacy.

I watched them disappear down the stairs and went to make coffee. It occurred to me that I was probably not the first person to wake up with unexpected tenants in an inconvenient part of his anatomy. Somewhere, I thought, there was undoubtedly a tired traveler opening his eyes that morning and wondering why his elbow was furnished.

THE FATHER WHO SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT THIS THROUGH

“Dad, can I ask you something?”

His father looked up from the newspaper and immediately became suspicious. There are certain openings to a conversation that no parent hears without a slight tightening of the stomach, and this was one of them.

“Sure,” he said cautiously.

“Where do babies come from?”

The newspaper lowered by approximately two inches.

“Well,” his father said, “that’s an interesting question.”

The boy waited.

His father considered several possible answers, rejected all of them, and then settled upon the first explanation that entered his mind, which was unfortunate because it involved a delivery truck, a mysterious bakery, and a moonlit orchard inhabited by unusually cheerful fairies.

“Basically,” he began, “when a baby is needed, the nighttime delivery people come through town carrying a large basket. They stop at the little bakery behind the church, where the bakers make babies out of flour, cinnamon, and a special kind of sugar that only grows under the full moon. Then the moon gardeners put the babies in wooden crates, and the delivery people bring one to the house where it belongs.”

The boy appeared impressed.

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” said his father, now committed to the lie.

“And how do they know which house?”

“Well, each baby has a tiny address written on its foot.”

The boy thought about this for a moment.

“What if they get the address wrong?”

“Then,” his father said, “there are some very awkward conversations.”

The boy nodded solemnly and seemed satisfied.

His father began raising the newspaper again when the boy spoke.

“Okay. Then where did the television come from?”

The father froze.

“The television?”

“Yeah.”

He stared at his son for several seconds.

Then he slowly folded the newspaper.

“Same people,” he said. “Different bakery.”

THE WINTER THAT LASTED ELEVEN MINUTES

We had prepared ourselves for a long winter that year, the sort of winter that begins in November and settles over a town with the grim determination of a relative who has come to stay indefinitely. By the end of autumn, the cellar was stacked with firewood, the animals had been brought into the barn, the windows had been sealed, and the pantry was sufficiently stocked to sustain the household through several months of snow, ice, and the general inconvenience that accompanies being unable to see the road. My father had even sharpened the old snow shovel, which was considered excessive at the time but which, as events would demonstrate, was not nearly as excessive as some of the other preparations we had made.

The last week of November was unusually cold, and everyone could feel winter approaching. The sky had taken on that particular grayness that seems to press down upon the fields, and the wind had begun moving through the trees with the low, persistent sound of something large and unpleasant approaching from a considerable distance. Then, one afternoon, the storm arrived. Snow came down so heavily that within minutes the pasture disappeared, the barn roof was nearly obscured, and the old oak trees behind the house were bending under the weight of the wind. We hurried inside, bolted the doors, pulled the curtains, and built up the fire until the stove was glowing. Ma put a pot of broth on the range, and for the first time that season everyone began discussing winter as though it were an actual adversary that had arrived at the front gate and intended to remain until spring.

It was a convincing performance. We sat around the kitchen in our heavy sweaters and wool socks, listening to the wind howl outside and congratulating ourselves on having had the foresight to prepare. My father remarked that we would probably be snowed in until March. My mother said she hoped we had enough coffee. Someone mentioned that the chickens would have to be checked in the morning, assuming the door could still be opened. We had all settled mentally into the long confinement of winter when, approximately eleven minutes after the storm began, the entire thing simply stopped.

There was no gradual improvement, no final gust of wind, and no dignified retreat of the weather toward some distant horizon. One moment we were in the middle of a blizzard and the next there was nothing. The wind disappeared, the clouds parted, and sunlight came through the kitchen window as though somebody had switched on a lamp. We opened the door cautiously and discovered that the snow was already melting. By the time we reached the porch, birds were singing in the trees. A few minutes later, the first flowers began opening in the garden, which was particularly confusing because we had planted none of them.

Within the hour, the temperature had risen to nearly ninety degrees.

There we stood in our wool coats, scarves, sheepskin-lined boots, and thick gloves, looking out over a landscape that had somehow gone directly from December to late June while we were standing in the kitchen. The chickens were wandering around as though nothing unusual had happened. A pair of robins had returned to the apple tree. Somewhere down the road, a man had apparently decided that this was an excellent opportunity to mow his lawn, and the distant sound of his lawnmower seemed almost insulting.

Nobody said much. We simply stood there looking at one another, because there are certain circumstances in which language is not particularly useful. We had spent weeks preparing for winter, had endured eleven minutes of it, and had somehow arrived in summer. The fire was still blazing in the stove. Ma’s broth was still simmering. There were six cords of firewood stacked in the shed and enough canned food in the cellar to sustain us through a siege.

For the next two weeks, we mostly waited.

Nobody trusted the weather anymore. Every morning we looked outside expecting snow. Every evening someone checked the thermometer. We left the storm windows up because taking them down seemed presumptuous, and we continued wearing sweaters in the house despite the fact that everyone was sweating. My father refused to put the snow shovel away. “It’ll be back,” he said, with the grim confidence of a man who had spent three hundred dollars preparing for something that had lasted eleven minutes.

Winter never returned.

Eventually the flowers died, summer arrived properly, and we accepted that the previous season had apparently been nothing more than a meteorological misunderstanding. But every November afterward, when the first cold wind came through the valley, somebody would look toward the woods and ask whether we ought to bring in the animals.

Nobody laughed.

We had learned our lesson.

Weather, like family, is capable of changing its mind without consulting anybody.

THE DAY THE GEESE ARRIVE

I have been preparing for the geese.

Other people may be caught completely unprepared when the geese finally arrive, but I intend to handle the occasion with dignity. I have spent considerable time thinking about what a person ought to say when confronted by a large number of geese under circumstances that have not yet been explained.

I have several possibilities.

“Ah. Geese.”

Or perhaps, “Well, this is unexpected.”

There is also the more enthusiastic approach:

“Welcome, geese. I hope your journey was pleasant.”

I have practiced these statements in the kitchen, in the car, and once while waiting for the pharmacist to find my prescription. The pharmacist seemed uncomfortable, but I believe that was because she had not been informed about the geese.

I have considered other responses.

“Good afternoon, distinguished birds.”

“Please remain calm.”

“I assume you have come to discuss the matter.”

The last one seems particularly useful because it establishes immediately that I am prepared for negotiations.

Of course, nobody knows when the geese will arrive. It could be tomorrow. It could be next Tuesday. They may come in the morning, or they may appear suddenly at dusk and stand silently in the driveway, waiting for someone to acknowledge them.

This is precisely why preparation is necessary.

When the moment comes, I do not intend to panic.

I will take a deep breath.

I will look the lead goose directly in the eye.

And I will say the one thing I have decided upon with absolute certainty:

“Good. You’re here.”

THE DAY I FINALLY LEFT THE CHAIR

It began as an ordinary afternoon, which is how most significant events begin before anybody realizes they are significant. I had been sitting in my favorite chair for some time, staring at the television without actually watching it and wondering whether there was anything in the refrigerator worth getting up for.

There was not.

This was important.

I considered remaining where I was.

Then, for reasons I still cannot fully explain, I thought, “Perhaps I should stand.”

The idea seemed radical.

For years I had treated the chair as a destination rather than a temporary arrangement. I had sat there through entire afternoons, evenings, and at least one birthday. I had developed a system for reaching the remote without changing position. I had become, in a very real sense, part of the furniture.

But that afternoon something changed.

I leaned forward.

My feet touched the floor.

I stood.

For several seconds I remained upright, amazed by the possibilities that had suddenly become available to me. The kitchen was there. The hallway was there. The front door was there. I could go anywhere.

I walked to the refrigerator.

There was still nothing worth eating.

Nevertheless, I felt different.

I had done something difficult, something nobody had specifically asked me to do, and something I had previously regarded as entirely unnecessary.

Perhaps others would follow.

Perhaps future generations would hear about the afternoon when a man simply decided that sitting down was no longer sufficient.

Or perhaps tomorrow I would sit back in the chair and never get up again.

But at least now I knew I could.

THE CELESTIAL METHOD FOR BECOMING EXTREMELY LIGHT

For centuries, people have looked to the stars for guidance. Sailors used them to find their way home, farmers used them to predict the seasons, and increasingly desperate people have begun consulting them about whether they should have dessert.

Professor Horace Bellweather’s Celestial Slimming System combines astronomy, nutrition, and the ancient human desire to fit into trousers that were purchased several years ago.

The principle is simple. Every person is assigned a food according to his or her constellation. Unfortunately, Professor Bellweather’s research indicates that most constellations are associated with foods that are extremely small.

THE FIRST PHASE

Aries: one almond.

Taurus: half a cracker.

Gemini: the smell of toast.

Cancer: one green pea, provided it is cut in half.

Leo: an entire grape, but only on alternate Thursdays.

THE SECOND PHASE

At this point, the stars become more demanding. Participants are permitted to look at food photographs for nutritional encouragement. Under no circumstances should the photographs be touched.

A particularly favorable alignment of Jupiter may permit the dieter to lick a birthday cake.

THE THIRD PHASE

Once the moon enters the correct house, the program becomes considerably more generous.

Participants may consume an entire slice of pie.

This is followed by three days of remorse and a consultation with an astrologer who will explain that the pie was probably Saturn’s fault.

The system has been enormously successful among people who enjoy complicated charts and dislike lunch.

There is, however, one final provision.

If after completing the entire program you have not reached your desired weight, do not blame yourself. The stars may simply have miscalculated.

At that point, Professor Bellweather recommends stepping away from the scale, putting on a comfortable pair of pants, and accepting the revolutionary possibility that the number on the bathroom floor may not actually be the most important fact about your existence.

OH, THE TERRIBLE BEAUTY OF THREE SMALL IDEAS

I

There are mornings, I told her, when the season seems to arrive without making an appointment. A tree will suddenly have leaves. A bird will appear on the telephone wire. Somewhere a lawn mower will begin its annual argument with the neighbors.

History is mostly like that, I said.

Nobody remembers the ordinary Tuesday.

They remember the afternoon the horse escaped, the evening the mayor fell into the fountain, the summer when everyone briefly believed the lake was haunted. Great events seldom announce themselves. They simply happen, and afterward somebody gives them a date.

She looked at me.

“Were you going somewhere with this?”

I admitted that I had not been.

II

There are also evenings when the mind becomes sentimental about things that do not deserve sentimentality.

A closed diner.

An empty parking lot.

The smell of somebody’s fireplace three streets away.

A receipt found in an old coat.

You begin remembering people you haven’t seen in twenty years and places that were never particularly interesting in the first place. You remember a particular sandwich, a particular rainstorm, a particular streetlamp.

Then you realize you have spent forty minutes thinking about a parking meter.

This is how nostalgia works.

It has no standards.

III

For those who feel that ordinary conversation has become insufficiently strange, several possibilities remain.

1. Approach your closest friend with complete seriousness and announce, “I have been studying your handwriting, and I have reached a troubling conclusion.” Refuse to elaborate.
2. Attend a formal dinner carrying a completely ordinary banana. Place it beside your plate before the first course. If anyone asks why, look mildly surprised and say, “You mean nobody else brought one?”
3. Visit an art gallery, stand respectfully before a landscape painting, and after several minutes whisper, “I know what you did,” before walking calmly to the next room.

These activities have no practical purpose.

They will improve nothing.

They will almost certainly confuse somebody.

And perhaps that is enough.

THE PLACE WHERE COMMON SENSE WENT MISSING

There is a peculiar territory between one bad decision and the next, a sort of psychological no-man’s-land where ordinary rules cease to apply and everybody involved begins speaking as though they have been awake for three days.

I found myself there one evening.

“Stop!” she shouted.

“I am stopping,” I replied.

“You are absolutely not stopping!”

This was difficult to determine, since neither of us had established what, precisely, was supposed to be stopping.

She pointed dramatically toward the hallway.

“You cannot simply do this and expect me to remain silent!”

“I wasn’t expecting silence.”

“You should have been!”

At this point a minister appeared in the doorway, which was unfortunate because nobody had invited him and, more importantly, nobody could remember why he had come.

He was carrying a wallet.

“This belongs to Mr. Pembroke,” he announced.

Everyone looked at Mr. Pembroke.

Mr. Pembroke looked at the wallet.

Then he looked at his own empty pocket.

“That explains something,” he said.

The wallet had apparently been discovered beneath a chair in the bedroom, although no one could explain how it had arrived there. This immediately led to a discussion concerning whether its location constituted evidence of anything at all, a question that became considerably more complicated when someone discovered that the wallet had been missing since Tuesday.

The minister sighed.

“I think,” he said, “that we have wandered rather far from the original subject.”

Nobody could remember what the original subject had been.

And that, more or less, was how the evening ended: with an unexplained wallet, an embarrassed gentleman, an increasingly frustrated woman, and a clergyman standing in the hallway wondering why he had ever agreed to come over in the first place.

Somewhere between propriety and confusion, we had crossed the border.

There was no sign.

Late September Golf: Eighteen Holes Before Dark

There are certain September days in New England when summer has finally loosened its grip but autumn has not yet fully taken over, and today was one of them. Fifty-eight degrees, crystal-clear skies, essentially no humidity, and that particular coolness in the air that makes walking onto a golf course feel almost medicinal after spending the better part of the day inside a hospital. I was able to get out of the hospital a little earlier than usual this Wednesday, and, as I have mentioned before, there is a fairly simple rule I have developed for these situations: if the weather is perfect and there is enough daylight left to get eighteen holes in, I am going golfing.

So I drove home, changed, grabbed the clubs, and loaded them into the BMW M8. There is something inherently satisfying about putting a golf bag into a car that has absolutely no business being associated with golf and then pointing it toward the country club. The M8 is not exactly a practical golf vehicle, but it does make the trip to the course considerably more entertaining. I am a member of the club, after all, and there is a certain obligation to extract some value from those dues and fees. At least that is the argument I continue to make to myself.

By the time I reached the course, the temperature had settled into that perfect cool range where you can swing aggressively without feeling overheated, but the air is not yet cold enough to make the hands stiff. The course was beginning to show the first unmistakable signs that summer was over. A few leaves had already found their way onto the fairways, scattered across the turf almost casually. The grass was still in excellent shape, but the landscape had begun its slow transition. It was a reminder that the window for these twilight rounds is narrowing by the day.

I went out with the intention of playing eighteen, and I was not particularly interested in turning the round into a leisurely September stroll. I wanted to play golf. Real golf. Full routine, full commitment, proper club selection, target golf, and an attempt to execute every shot rather than simply knocking the ball around for the sake of being outside.

And, frankly, I played extremely well.

I would put the round in my Excellent: Outstanding, near elite/tour-level with minimal flaws category. That is not something I say casually. There is a considerable difference between having a good score and actually playing excellent golf. You can shoot a respectable number while making questionable decisions, getting away with poor swings, or scrambling your way around the course. Conversely, you can occasionally strike the ball beautifully and still post a mediocre score because of one bad stretch around the greens. Today was much closer to the former ideal: the swing was there, the contact was there, the ball-striking was there, and, perhaps most importantly, the decisions were generally sound.

The biggest difference was my tee game. I was finding the center of the clubface consistently, and that changes the entire geometry of a golf course. When the driver is behaving, the game becomes considerably easier because you are hitting approach shots from the places where the architect intended you to hit them rather than spending the afternoon manufacturing recoveries. I was able to commit to the driver without steering it, and the ball flight had the kind of penetrating trajectory I like this time of year. There was enough launch to carry hazards and enough spin stability that the ball was not ballooning or wandering excessively in the cool air.

The important part was not simply distance. It was position.

I was putting the ball in places that gave me a clean second shot. That sounds obvious, but it is one of those things that separates playing golf from merely hitting golf shots. A tee shot can be technically excellent and still leave you with an awkward angle, an obstructed line, or a poor entry into the green. Today I was generally playing to the correct side of the fairway, setting up the next shot before I ever reached the ball.

My irons were probably the strongest part of the round.

There was a particularly good rhythm to the iron play. The contact was crisp, with the ball coming off the face before the turf, and the divots were generally shallow and moving toward the target. That is one of those little things golfers notice immediately. When the strike is right, the clubhead does not feel as though it is fighting the ground. It feels as though the club is moving through the ball and then taking the turf afterward.

The cooler temperature also made club selection interesting. The ball does not carry quite the same way in fifty-eight-degree air as it does on a hot, humid July afternoon, and I found myself paying closer attention to actual carry numbers rather than relying on summer yardages. That meant a little more club on several approaches, but I never felt as though I was forcing the swing to manufacture distance. I simply trusted the number, selected the appropriate club, and made the swing.

That is really the essence of good approach play.

Pick the target. Pick the number. Pick the club. Commit.

There was very little of the dreaded in-between golf where you are standing over a shot thinking about three different possibilities and eventually making a swing that reflects none of them.

My proximity to the greens was also excellent. I was giving myself legitimate birdie opportunities rather than relying on twenty-five-foot putts to manufacture momentum. Several approaches finished inside a comfortable makeable range, and even when I missed the intended landing spot, I generally left myself with manageable pitches or straightforward uphill chips rather than short-sided nonsense.

And short-sided nonsense is one of the great ways to turn an excellent round into a frustrating one.

The short game was similarly controlled. I was not trying to get cute. Around the greens, I kept the technique simple: select the landing spot, determine the amount of release, and make the stroke that produces that trajectory. A couple of times I had opportunities to attack pins, but the better decision was to play toward the fat portion of the green and accept a ten- or fifteen-footer rather than bring a bunker or difficult-sided slope into play.

That is another distinction between scoring golf and recreational golf. Recreational golf asks, Can I hit this shot? Scoring golf asks, Should I hit this shot?

Today I was generally asking the second question.

The putting stroke was equally solid. I did not have one of those magical days where every twenty-footer disappears, but I also did not have the three-putt nonsense that can quietly sabotage a round. Speed control was good, and that matters more to me than anything else on the greens. I was consistently leaving the ball in a manageable position when the first putt did not fall. There is nothing particularly glamorous about two-putting from thirty feet, but doing it repeatedly is one of the easiest ways to protect a good round.

The round also benefited from something golfers know but non-golfers sometimes overlook: there was very little wasted motion. I was not searching for balls, repeatedly punching out from trees, taking penalty drops, or trying to recover from bad decisions. The round had a rhythm to it. Tee shot, approach, green, putt. Move on. Tee shot, approach, green, putt. Move on.

That rhythm becomes especially satisfying late in the season because there is something almost tactile about the course at this time of year. The grass still has plenty of life, but the light is different. The shadows are longer. The trees are beginning to thin out. Every once in a while a leaf lands on the fairway and you realize that the calendar is moving whether you are ready for it or not.

I was also reminded of how much I enjoy the longer twilight rounds. There is something about watching the light gradually disappear while still trying to execute a golf swing that makes the final holes feel different from the first ones. The course becomes quieter. The temperature drops another few degrees. The ball seems to disappear into the evening sky a little faster after impact.

And then there was Thomas.

He was visiting from Dallas on business and was not a member of the club, but he knew several members who had arranged for him to play. We talked for a little while before heading out, and eventually ended up playing together. He was a good golfer, and, more importantly, he was enjoyable to play with. There was no unnecessary posturing, no excessive analysis of every shot, and none of that strange competitive behavior that occasionally appears when two strangers are paired together. We simply played.

It turned into a very good game.

Thomas gave me enough resistance to keep the round interesting, and there were several holes where the difference came down to execution rather than some dramatic mistake. That is my favorite kind of competitive golf. Nobody is handing the other player holes. You have to earn them.

There is a particular satisfaction in playing against someone you have just met because there are no assumptions. He does not know how I normally play, I do not know his tendencies, and neither of us has any history to lean on. You find out quickly. How does he handle a difficult lie? Does he attack pins? Does he bail out? What does he do after a bogey? Does he take dead aim after a birdie? Does he protect a lead or continue to attack?

Thomas was steady, and that made the match enjoyable.

I simply happened to be a little steadier.

The decisive difference was probably my ability to keep the ball in play and continue giving myself reasonable looks at birdie. I did not need to manufacture anything spectacular. I just kept putting myself into positions where pars were available and birdies were possible. When opportunities appeared, I took advantage of enough of them to create separation.

And eventually, I bested him.

There was no grand finale to it. Golf rarely needs one. You play the holes, count the shots, shake hands, and walk off the course. The scorecard tells you what happened, but it does not always tell you how it happened. Today, the more important thing was the quality of the golf. The round felt controlled from beginning to end, and that is a much better feeling than simply looking at a number after eighteen holes.

By the time we reached the final holes, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon. There was still just enough residual light to see the fairways and greens, but the course had taken on that dusky blue-gray appearance that lasts only a few minutes before darkness finally wins. The leaves on the ground were more noticeable in the fading light, and the temperature had dropped enough that I was grateful for the jacket I had brought along.

Finishing an eighteen-hole round in those conditions is a very different experience from walking off the course at two o’clock on a July afternoon. There is no heat radiating from the pavement, no humidity hanging in the air, no golfers lingering everywhere around the clubhouse. It is quieter, cooler, and somehow more intimate.

And the golf was worth every minute.

From a technical standpoint, this was one of those rounds where nearly every part of the game cooperated. Driver: excellent. Fairway woods and hybrids: controlled. Iron play: excellent. Wedges: precise. Short game: dependable. Putting: confident and, most importantly, disciplined. Course management: aggressive when appropriate and conservative when the situation demanded it. There were very few wasted shots, and even fewer mental mistakes.

That combination is what makes a round feel complete.

The score is ultimately just the accounting department. The real pleasure comes from knowing that the swing was synchronized, the contact was clean, the club selection was correct, the targets were sensible, and the ball generally went where it was supposed to go. There are rounds where you shoot well despite yourself, and there are rounds where you know exactly why you played well. This was the latter.

It was also one of those afternoons that reminds me why I keep the clubs in rotation even during a demanding hospital schedule. Medicine is wonderfully complicated, but it is rarely simple. Golf, by comparison, gives you a beautifully uncomplicated problem: the ball is sitting there, the target is somewhere ahead, and you have to figure out how to get the ball there.

Then you do it again.

And again.

Eighteen times, give or take a few bad decisions.

Today, the decisions were good, the swings were better, and the weather was about as close to perfect as late September in New England gets. I left the course barely able to see the last few holes, eighteen played, Thomas beaten, and the first leaves of autumn scattered across the fairways.

Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday afternoon after leaving the hospital early.

Sometimes you really do need to get your money’s worth out of those country-club dues.

WORDS YOU SHOULD NEVER LET PEOPLE CALL YOU

There are certain words that should be kept at a safe distance. Not because they are especially offensive, but because once somebody has attached one to your name, it can become remarkably difficult to shake.

For example, you do not want to be known as a fussbudget.

A fussbudget is a person who can turn a perfectly pleasant afternoon into a formal complaint. He examines the coffee, questions the temperature of the room, objects to the chair, and eventually demands to speak with someone about the arrangement of the napkins. Nobody wants to spend an afternoon with a fussbudget, least of all another fussbudget.

You should also avoid becoming a dawdler.

Dawdlers are never technically late because they are perpetually on their way. They simply never seem to arrive. If you tell one to meet you at noon, he will appear at twelve forty-seven carrying a sandwich and explain that he was “just getting around to it.”

Then there is the mumbler.

The mumbler has something to say but apparently regards the human voice as an unnecessary luxury. He begins a sentence, lowers his volume, looks at the floor, and concludes with a series of sounds that may contain useful information. Nobody knows. Asking him to repeat himself only makes him mumble more quietly.

A particularly unfortunate reputation is that of the lingerer.

Lingerers do not leave.

They finish dinner and continue sitting there. They say goodbye and remain in the doorway. They put on their coat and somehow spend another twenty minutes discussing the weather. Eventually the host begins turning lights off, but the lingerer interprets this as an invitation to continue.

Finally, there is the backslider, a person who promises to improve, announces that things will be different, and then immediately does exactly what he had just promised to stop doing.

Avoid these descriptions whenever possible.

Be punctual. Speak clearly. Leave when the evening is over. Keep your promises.

And above all, if you discover that someone has begun calling you a fussbudget, dawdler, mumbler, lingerer, or backslider, do not argue with him.

That would only make matters worse.