With autumn having arrived, the wind blowing at biblical levels, and fallen leaves starting to hide my errant golf shots, I turned my attention to preparing for what is to come, because, as weatherman Phil Connors so aptly put it in Groundhog Day, “I’ll give you a winter prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.” And that was before the delta variant.

So, I visited a long-forgotten friend, my safe deposit box. Oh, sure, I knew, and mostly ignored the fact, that the bank deducted a few dollars every year from my checking account to pay for the luxury of having an uninsured place to store unimportant documents in a building that might be converted into a wine bar at any moment without prior notice, but with outdoor activities winding down, and indoor activities still borderline, at least until I get my fourteenth booster shot, I needed to find something constructive to do, so, at long last, cleaning out the box seemed like just the ticket.

As expected, most everything, except my first passport, which has a flattering picture of me, can and will be discarded, that is, shredded, giving me months of something to do that also qualifies, in my book, as exercise. But I’ll miss these decennial visits to the box. We had something special.