Something has happened to the BBC this morning. I have a bit of a panic attack. Can Bush House have gone dark? Has something happened to the people and institutions of Great Britain?

The alarm went off just fine. I have the clock set twenty minutes fast in the bedroom so that it will scare me when I see it when jolted into consciousness in the darkness by the harsh claxon. It doesn’t work anymore. I am capable of believing two impossible things before breakfast, but the time on the alarm clock is not one of them. Normally I wander out to the kitchen and turn on the coffee, stop by the balcony and look down over Route 50 and sample the coming day. It is gray, of course, but the moon floats serene up there in a waning phase of what they used to call the Honey Moon, the full moon of the summer solstice. Make of that what you will, Gentle Reader, but the fact is that the days from here wane like the moon, all the way to dusky fall and the return of the cold.

But why think of that? It is summertime at last, and the living is easy.

My NPR station is not playing the BBC. I have no news from the Continent and instead change stations to listen to the other NPR station’s economic feature called Marketplace. It is nice to have more than one choice of Public radio, but this is Washington, after all. Marketplace is apparently intended to keep the practitioners of our busy economy on top of the latest trends. It bores me, since I prefer actionable news, word of trucks with explosives or attacks in Baghdad. I frown at the radio, unsettled. Is it possible that my preferred NPR station has gone into receivership? They had what seemed to be an emergency fund drive a week or more ago, but they did not tell me how desperate the situation was. Now there was nothing but gentle classical music where special reports should have been.

I was filled with remorse. I had written a check, hadn’t I? I went to my desk and checked the register and saw that I had, in the amount of $25 dollars, number 2018, dated 08 June. I suddenly wished I had given more, made it hurt a little deeper. But how was I to know that it really was serious this time? It always sounds so grim during Pledge week. I prayed that it was just some technical problem, a burned out diode someplace, and not the catastrophic inability to pay the phone bill. It might be summertime but the bills still come.

Marketplace told me the Federal Reserve is up to some strange business. Mr. Greenspan has slashed the interest rate once more, to a level not seen in my lifetime. Soon they might be giving the stuff away. I think it might be a wonderful day to rush out and take on vast debt at bargain rates. The day is filled with possibility. And Beijing was taken off the travel advisory list for SARS. Toronto is still on, as is Taipei, but there have been no new cases and the disease may have been beaten down for now. The question is whether we can consider it to be extinguished, or whether it is like the mosquitoes that carry the West Nile virus. The New York Times quote of the day is chilling, from a fellow named Robert Kent who is cited as an expert in mosquito control from New Jersey:

“The adult mosquito population is not flying, but resting and staying out of the weather like any other adult with common sense. One of our concerns is that when the weather changes and we get some hot, dry days, they are really going to be out looking for blood.”

It is supposed to be hot and dry today. The radio says the Council of Governments has announced that they predict a Code Orange day. I have to think through my lists. In a meteorological context, I think that means that the air quality is going to be potentially hazardous to those with respiratory problems, or the very young or the very old. It does not mean that we have to change our terrorist alert posture. I think we are still at “Yellow Alert,” which means that we are to be vigilant but not panicky. Orange means begin to panic, and “Red” presumably means stay home and break out the ammunition. We haven’t been there yet, to angry condition, but I have canned goods for a month and the extra ammo is on the shelf in the closet next to the duct tape.

My University was in the news, too. It prevailed in the Supreme Court yesterday, or spun it that way anyhow. Two opinions were issued by the High Court, one approving discrimination in the Law School admissions process, the other saying that undergraduate admissions standards had discriminated too much. The court walked another fine line in Legal Never-Never land. The upshot of the undergrad opinion was that a 20% credit apportioned to minority applicants toward the magic score of 100 was too much. My younger son was in the batch of white kids who were rejected last year. He is a pretty good kid with pretty good grades and pretty good test scores and pretty good extra-curricular activities. But the only break he got was five bonus points for being an alumni offspring. I called the admissions office to see what impact the decision might have on those kids who were rejected under a system that was held to be unconstitutional. A chipper young woman with a sunny voice seemed surprised that the decision had been rendered. When I asked what recourse would be put in place for those applicants who were unlawfully denied admission, she cheerily told me that their lawyers had told them that no court decision would affect any student previously considered. On advise of counsel, they were told to consider everything a blank slate from here out and ignore the past.

I did not seriously consider some last ditch legal challenge to my alma mater. I think my son has got over the pain of rejection and his self-esteem seems to be holding up pretty well. He is at Beach Week and I doubt if he is listening to NPR to know that the High Court agrees he was wronged without redress. But I wondered that I might actually be rooting against my beloved Wolverines this fall, when the days are shorter and the smell of autumn and football are in the air.

But it is summer and the air this morning has a weight to it. The temperature will rise into the nineties later today under brilliant sunshine. The weight I feel is the growing moisture in the air. Clenching the muscles of my lower back I am gratified to discover that the impact of an abrupt fall onto the asphalt last night has not developed into a paralyzing bruise. That had been of concern when I finally went to bed, wired after gliding around on Rollerblades in the parking lot behind the Ski Chalet.

Our little lesson group had glided smoothly in the low rays of soft afternoon light. We practiced the maneuvers we had learned in the last three sessions. We skated with broad strides, crossed over our skates to carve turns. We practiced “T” stops, weight on the lead skate and rising up on the toe-wheel of the other, then turning the foot sideways to drag and slow down. The class was getting to an intermediate stage. We practiced going through a pot-hole in the parking lot, putting one skate forward and keeping our speed up to blow through the obstacle. We practiced skating up over a curb, and over carpets placed on the flat to simulate broken surfaces. Then our instructor said he was going to show us something interesting.

We ventured out of our safe harbor behind the Chalet, into the wide world where cars raced and the oblivious citizenry hurried about their evening chores. We looked both ways and skated on uneven sidewalks and across the road to the parking lot behind the Eckhard’s drug store. The training feature here was a pair of speed bumps, ominous thick black worms of adamant asphalt. They assumed an imposing aspect here, tall enough to bump into and trip over. The teaching point was to approach the obstacle with one foot forward, so that you tracked with all eight wheels. If you approached with feet parallel, the impact could be enough to bring you right down. I was in the lead, impatient. I stepped over the first speed hump and caught the lead edge of my rear skate. Clearly not the way to do it. I flailed a little as my center of gravity trailed my feet. I waved my hands, recovering my balance. I skated around the second barrier and then did a wide turn, picking up speed to come back and attack it again. I saw the rest of the class entering the parking lot as I looked down, seeing that my feet were parallel and then realized I had it completely wrong.

I had a moment to think about it, ass over teakettle, and then thumped down flat on my butt. I did not slide, just hit it right smack-on square. The impact was hard enough to rattle my teeth together. I took a moment to assess my condition. I determined nothing was broken, and got a few cheers from my classmates. My friend, her first time on blades, glided up to the speed-bump and went over effortlessly, actually trying to get air under her skates. She had determined that she could not stop, but that was a skill that would come in time, In the meantime she was concentrating on pirouettes and skating backward. A natural, she was. I got up and hit the bumps again, finally mastering the skill. We pushed off down the hill, gaining speed and practicing our stops on the way down, our wheels always threatening to run away with us.

“This is something we can do!” exclaimed my friend, blonde hair flowing out from under her helmet as she flew by, arms raised as if she were Dorothy Hammel. I tried a toe-point turn and skated out backward, almost what I had intended to do. I think she is right. It is summertime, and the living is easy.

All things considered.

Copyright 2003 Vic Socotra