Just back from Massachusetts, where I visited my grammar school and post-college roommate and her husband. She's a nurse, he's a cardiologist, and they met while in the employ of Booth Memorial Hospital (now known as New York Hospital-Queens). Both my daughters were born there.
Over the weekend, we had fun eating, drinking, and discussing politics. Cathy and I watched her son score three hits in a baseball game, before going to Barnes & Noble (where I bought Kurt Vonnegut's A Man Without a Country) before hitting a local farm for ice cream.
I took the train to and from Massachusetts. I've been licensed to drive for ages, but I've never liked it. In fact, I hate it. I'd much rather read and stare out a train window. I realize I'm in the minority, judging by all the auto traffic we saw while Cathy drove me to the station this morning.
On the train, I managed to nearly finish one of several books I'd been reading. Unfortunately, I don't put 'em away at home the way I used to; I feel guilty sitting still. I figure I should be doing something else (like folding laundry or stirring tomato sauce), but on a train there's really not much else to do but read and relax.