One of several disparate thoughts bouncing around my head this afternoon is the line �Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!� from Poe�s The Raven. Since I have made no effort to memorize that poem, and in fact actively dislike it, the reason that it stuck in my brain is unclear to me. Although I drove to work along the shore, there is no tempest, nor is it night�the day is clear and crisp, and the sky blue and filled with the voluptuous clouds beloved by plein air painters of this area, yet so infrequently present.

I woke up late, very late, after a fitful and icy night on the boat, and a long dream wherein I was a rock star and Keith Richards (with a very neat manicure) was the chauffeur of my limousine. Today has proven to be a day of non sequiturs and meaningless coincidences. As an example of the latter, I will mention an item of spam I noticed on opening my e-mail, sent from someone with the first name of Lettice. A few minutes later, I ripped off the old page in the Edward Gorey calendar on my desk, to see an illustration of a somber young woman (one of his �Neglected Murderesses�) by the caption, �Lettice Finding shot Edgar Cutlet, whose mistress she was, during the interval of a touring company production of Rosmersholm in Manchester in 1934.� Odd, but ultimately meaningless, like most of the exchanges I�ve had today, or will have tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

One such exchange was instigated by my coworker Melvin, who, among many other amusing habits, has a love of beginning conversations in the middle and expecting listeners to catch up. Today, he approached my desk, pretending he meant to stroll toward the balcony to admire the view, and stated, �Well� I was corrected. Renata told me that the German word for high is hoch, spelled H-O-C-H, and the word for house is haus, spelled H-A-U-S, so the word for skyscraper is Hochhaus.� I had been aware of no debate, or indeed, any conversation at all about the matter, which from Melvin�s point of view did not put me at any kind of disadvantage. He is always happy to explain, and so he did (I have forgotten the details, my brain being full at this time with lines from poems I wish I�d never heard). Anyway, in looking it up just now, I find that the German word for skyscraper is not Hochhaus, but is in fact Wolkenkratzer. Hochhaus does mean �high house,� but it is used in the sense of our word high-rise. And there you have it: information you will never need. Consider it my little holiday gift to you.

The topic reminded me of a misconception I held as a child and first became aware of the concept of skyscrapers. I lived in Massachusetts and was familiar with ice scrapers, used to clear the windshield in the winter. I imagined that skyscrapers would look similar�a tall structure with a pointed, angled blade at the top that scraped the sky in a kind of windshield-wiper motion. I don�t remember what I believed was being scraped. Clouds, maybe, or pollution. At any rate, the motionless buildings I eventually encountered were a bit of a disappointment.

Something else I�m reminded of: my cousins and I, to ward off boredom at family gatherings, like to play a game I invented, called various things but most frequently, �Yearbook.� It involves looking through the yearbook of someone who is present, but with whom you did not attend school. Each player picks, from each spread of open pages, one student or teacher, announcing the pick by saying, �I would go out with him.� Or her. Whichever. Then, the person to whom the yearbook belongs reveals details about each choice. I have had the good taste to pick both a future murderer and a jailbird. Five or six years ago, at Christmastime, we were picking dates from our uncle Joe Don�s yearbook, ca 1960. I announced my pick�a solemn-looking handsome boy with olive skin and black hair. �What can you tell me about�.� and I read the name, �Eddie� Lagos?� I asked Joe Don, seated in his recliner nearby. He looked up from the football game and tipped his head to one side, thinking. �Well,� he began, �I remember that his nickname was Lettuce.� When the general laughter subsided, I was the proud owner of a great new imaginary boyfriend, with all attendant familial harrassment. Santa couldn�t have planned it better.

The next night, I went out to dinner with the extended family, and almost as soon as I�d been seated, a waitress came by and dropped a wooden bowl in front of me, then walked away. I looked at the salad, puzzled, and asked the assembled group what it was. My cousin�s husband chimed in from across the table, stating, �I�d say that looks like lettuce.�

Melvin just came by to announce that he had figured out that �all you people spend about $500 per month on your cars.� He laughed and laughed as he walked back to his desk. He doesn�t own a car, nor does he drive, and it seems that he figured out our expense just to amuse himself. This is one of the reasons I like Melvin so much. You have to admire someone who will voluntarily do mathematical equations in order to determine a figure no one has asked for, just to make the point that he is smarter than you are. With the money he saves by not owning a car, I would think he could afford to take any number of taxis. I plan to suggest that next time he asks me for a ride.

Star of the day. . .Mary French