It is a quiet afternoon here until a few moments ago. A short, slight woman with a large black rimmed hat, black dress, white blonde hair thats been beaded like Bo Derek, stumbled into (literally) the library asking for directions to a cemetery to attended a funeral. She handed me a piece of paper with an address scratched on it, promptly sheds tears for 3 seconds, then composed herself. She was slurring her words, not walking very well, and seemed a bit distraught. So, is she under the influence or simply suffering from some some of physical ailment?
I looked the directions up for her. She was told the cemetery was in Glen Burnie and the service was over 30 minutes ago. She was from Bel Air. It is actually in Elkridge at the OTHER END of Route 100. I give her typed directions. She writes them in a shaky hand. Why she wrote them is beyond me. I watched her climb into her Mercedes after shedding a few more years, noisily blowing her nose, and stumbling out the door-directions in her purse. And she goes the wrong direction out of the parking lot.
Fortunately, it's a dead end road -eventually. She'll be back. Or she'll end up in Peoria.
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