I just completed reading my first book of 2008--a short story collection edited by Stephen King: The Best American Short Stories. Some good stuff in there.
One of the stories was about a drug addict and his meth lab production. Got me to thinking about my home town, all the friends I knew who died from drugs, and the fact that the house I grew up in burned to the ground last year. The police suggested someone was operating a meth lab in the basement. I used to watch TV in the basement (3 available channels) and neck on the couch with Becky (pre marriage). The closest thing I had to a meth lab was an old chemistry set I received in the 6th grade. I was always trying to fabricate a stink bomb that would drive my parents out of the house.
One of my oldest friends, who still lives in the house across the street, writes me every month with updates on who's been arrested, who's marrying whom, and what the senior center in town is serving for lunch. The last time I returned to my home town, I did a book signing to raise funds for the town library. My old high school English teacher showed up with a punch bowl and cookies, told me I was her favorite student, and gave me a kiss.
Thank you, Miss Wallace!