"There's a speed zone ahead but, all right, I don't see a cop in sight"

(Sawyer Brown reference)

The siren and the flashing lights behind us usually cause us to instinctively pull off of the road to the right so that the policeman can get to where he is going, but since I was already in the left-turn lane, and since the police car was immediately behind me, I figured out that I was the obvious object of his immediate affection, or at least attention.

I meant to turn in to the parking lot of the Inn where we, my wife and I, were to meet with a fellow CSN'er and her family for dinner, but in the excitement of the moment, I missed that parking lot by one and pulled into a space one lot over. The police car pulled behind us in such a way that I could not escape without driving my little sports car over the curb, up the grass embankment, over the next curb and onto the street, all without ripping up the underside of my precious little baby or being blindsided by on-coming traffic.

Since I had nowhere to go and assumed I was getting a speeding ticket of some sort, I elected not to try to escape, albeit, (1) my wife had only in the last minute or so advised that, having come off of the interstate, the speed limit was considerably lower than the speed of my vehicle, although she said it in a much different way, and (2) she was correct, and (3) she was correct by a large enough margin that I was concerned about more than a speeding ticket, perhaps reckless driving and an overnight stay (at least) in the local hoosegow (I don't get tickets very often, I think this was my third speeding ticket in 40 years of driving, and so am not sure what they do with out-of-town reckless drivers).

With respect to item (2), it was only later that I realized I would be hearing about this for the rest of my life, and while I might find it rather amusing, my significant other MIGHT just use it to rebut any casual claims by me that I am a much better driver than she is, even if such claims are true. It will be more difficult, for example, to advise her that the left lane is for passing and not for clogging traffic for miles and miles simply because the posted speed limit is 55 MPH.

This happened immediately in front of and then next to the inn where we were to meet my friend Tina from CSN and her family, of course, so they were in the lobby waiting for us and thus witness to the crime scene, the drama, the COPS-like atmosphere of wild and untamed Williamsburg, VA.

Just as an aside, the policeman was kind enough to lower the velocity of my vehicle on his report such that I avoided the reckless driving charge, but still high enough that at $6.00 per mile over the speed limit, and with whatever other costs they tack on, I would be pumping up the Williamsburg economy rather substantially during what is probably a slow time for this city. (I'm just saying! Not critical of the policeman at all, trust me! And I DID use the Cancer Card, whether it worked or not, much to my current shame. Okay, I'm not ashamed. I'm not even sure it had anything to do with my scraping by without that greater charge. Maybe Corrine winked at him. Maybe he thought to himself, "I don't blame him for driving too fast in THIS ride!")

And that begins my meeting, my FIRST meeting, with a fellow CSN'er EVER. "Welcome to my world. Won't you come on in?"

Perhaps Tina, her husband, Chris, and their daughter, Amanda, expected us to come in with an Uzi in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, all tattoos and bling and cigarettes drooping from both sides of our mouths.

We had none of the above, although I DO have a very small loop in my left ear lobe (if that counts as bling), product of the last cancer diagnosis and a moment of wild hair syndrome abetted by my son to some degree.

I 'met' Tina on the Cancer Survivor Network (CSN) either in the forums or in the Chat Room, and we certainly had some conversations in the Chat Room while her dad was battling an esophogeal cancer he would regrettably not survive. We became friends in the way that people do via these digital connections, but to Tina's credit, she wanted to make it more tangible and was persistent in the notion that we should meet, her family and mine. (Note to men: 'persistent' is preferable to 'nagging'. JUST JOKING, TINA!)

Thus, Williamsburg, a place they go to several times a year and a place not so very far from my home, an hour and a half perhaps (especially if you are not being clocked by the local constabulary, which can slow you down as I discovered at the very end of my latest drive to the Colonial city).

I must advise that Corrine and I were under the impression that we were going to a certain seafood place named after a certain crimson-colored crustacean that has been around since pre-historic times (the crustacean; not the restaurant). Admittedly, every time Tina suggested it, I would suggest that we look into places with more local color. In the end, on our end, we came up with nothing and so we anticipated the crimson-colored crustacean place on Saturday night.

On Thursday, I received a call from Tina to finalize plans and she seemed to be somewhat shocked by my voice (which shocks lots of people, frankly, until they get to know me). My assumption is that speech was not a problem for her dad and so she was understandably not prepared for someone with a slur. Still, the brevity of our talk prompted me to call her back on Saturday to confirm we were still on. We were, and she was no longer shocked, I suppose is the way to put it .

Anyway, in the meantime, she and her family had taken a walk and found an Italian place that had won the 2010 Best In Williamsburg award or some such and determined that I would enjoy that, not knowing that my wife and I were entertaining my sister and her husband on Friday evening with...fettucini with tomato sauce and optional beef (aka spaghetti with a substitute pasta).

No biggie. Really. I love Italian food. Even as a kid, I could eat spaghetti every single day and night if permitted to do so.

And this restaurant turned out to be awesome in my opinion. I had veal marsela (sp?) with an appetizer of mussels in some sort of extraordinary tomato-based sauce, and was able to eat some of all of it, but none of it completely. I expect that, sadly, at this point, but was really happy to be able to eat veal, really happy to be able to suck down so many mussels.

Along with a glass of some Italian beer, the name of which escapes me because they would not, despite my great insistence, allow me to take an empty bottle with me (the law, I know, but others have broken it for me ).

The one oddity at this point, for me, and one that other H/N cancer survivors might appreciate, is that as we were talking, from time to time I could not speak. I would try and perhaps spit food on poor Chris, or, eventually, I decided to quit, and would simply wave my finger back and forth while I took a sip of beer to wash down the veal, the fettucini, the mussel, whatever was in there. As someone has indicated to me since, that is the way you are supposed to eat, with your mouth closed . BUT...eating and speaking were not both on the menu for me, you could say, and I truly wanted to be a part of all of it.

Thus, the beer.

I am not sure what Tina and her family thought at the end when we asked for styrofoam 'doggie bags' and started collecting all foods in sight for later dining by yours truly, but that is what we do. (We did NOT collect leftovers from THEIR plates, as far as I know.)

To the crux of the matter, it was wonderful to meet Tina, it was fantastic to meet Chris, and it was special to meet Amanda, aka The Cannoli Kid.

They are clearly a united family, a happy family, a family at peace within themselves and with the world, and that is simply great to see... LIVE!

Corrine and I had a splendid time and despite any initial trepidation about meeting another CSN'er in person, I am now looking forward to it.

I note, in ending, that as we headed back to the inn from the restaurant, I happened to outwalk the others, not on purpose, and as I approached the front of the inn, they were calling my name. I turned and waved.

Seems Corrine, who was NOT drinking (none of us were, with the exception of my one beer, which I had to hurry to finish as time expired, as it were), had slipped off the curb and bruised and abraded herself. And I was waving back at them...geez.

Oh, and Tina: Corrine cut my hair that very day with hedge clippers or something of the sort, the typical wife's effort to make her husband presentable despite himself. I wish I had worn a hat, too, Chris .

Nonetheless, a very special day, a very special evening, one I will treasure always.

Ciao, Cannoli Kid.