(And where are you now?)  By Margaret Evans, Editor

 Last Saturday night, I was sitting with some friends on our second-story office porch overlooking Waterfront Park. The air was thick with August, but the sun had finally dipped behind the river and the breeze was rising and we had wine. Muted laughter wafted up from below – people strolling past restaurants and bars – and somewhere down the block, a band was just starting sound check. Life was good.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years since 9/11?” somebody asked.

For well over a decade now, I’ve been ranting and raving on this page. I’d like to believe the raves outweigh the rants – that I’ve shared more joy and humor with my readers than angst. But I’d have to go back and reread every column to prove it, and there are hundreds of them, and… well, talk about angst.

 The other night, my daughter and I rode bikes down to Pigeon Point Landing, as we often do after supper. It was Amelia’s tenth birthday, and all of nature was celebrating as we took our usual spot on the pier. The sun was a nectarine hanging low on the horizon, squirting juicy pink streaks across an iridescent sky. The wind on the marsh was almost autumnal – whipping the water, stirring the Spanish moss, bathing us in blessed cool. We dangled our feet, waiting for the dolphins to make their nightly appearance, a chorus of cicadas serenading us from the trees. I hugged my daughter to my side, my heart full of wonder and gratitude. Everything was perfect. Except…