I have returned from Cape Cod, from walking through sandy shoreland, among rushes, cattails, marsh elder, meadow grasses, and sedge. The wind, a northwester, was howling from the bay-side, and made hiking a kind of bent-over procedure that was not enjoyed by some members of our party. Still, October on the outer beaches of the national seashore is paradise.

Later, while it blew outside our dunetop cottage, we laid a moderate fire and started the countdown to the next Red Sox game.

In the meantime, I have accumulated -- as my brother called it -- "a wee cold." I am short of breath and slowed by the unpleasant combination of asthma and sinal mayhem. My doctor here wants me on antibiotics and wheeze medicine. I just want to go back on steroids, which had the artificial benefit of improving my mood while treating my breathing problems.

But why should I have mood problems? I've just seen my dear family, spent long days at the seashore, and watched the Red Sox win the pennant against the Yankees!

Still, home again, I miss my old life and my friends in California. Especially my golf partner, Chief. Now I don't play much golf anymore, but I still imagine that if I were back on the west coast, I'd be walking with Chief and listening to stories of his life and work as a pediatrician. I liked walking with him, talking to him, and occasionally whacking a golf ball straightaway for nearly 200 yards. All that was satisfying, and intimate in its own way. He's the one who got me into golf, and he's the one who tells me it's good to walk. Just keep walking he always says.

These days, I drive more than I hike, but when my own autumnal drear lifts, I have a plan.

(To be continued.)