It's here! Taking the afternoon off. Here, commit this to memory:Is there anything more wonderful than the Monday morning train - the 8:22? The
weekend - say a long weekend like the 4th - has left you rested. There have been
picnics, fireworks, excursions to the beach - all the pleasant things we do
together. One Sunday we had cocktails late and a pickup supper in the garden. We
see the darkness end the weekend without any regret - it has all been so
pleasant. In the garden we can hear, from the west, the noise of traffic on the
parkway rise to a high pitch it that will hold until nearly midnight, as the
other families drive back to the city from the mountains or the shore; and the
sleeping children, the clothing hung in the backseat, the infinity of headlights
- the sens that we take from these overcrowded Sunsay roads of a gigantic
evacuation, a gigantic pilgrimage - is all part of this hour. You water the
grass, tell the children a story, take a bath and get into bed. The morning is
brilliant and fresh. Your wife drives you to the train in the convertible. The
children and the dog come along. Fromt he minute you wake up you seem to be on
the verge of an irrepressible joy. The drive down Alewives Lane seems triumphal,
and when you see the station below you and the trees and the few people who have
already gathered here, waiting in the morning sun, and when you kiss your wife
and your children goodbye and give the dog's ears a scratch and say good morning
all around the platform and unfold the Tribune and hear the train, the
8:22, coming down the tracks, it seems to me a wonderful thing. - [Journals of John Cheever]
Also, as you have a brain in your head, you've been dying for the whole of this:
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