On the way home from Rotary tonight, I passed three bicyclists and two dog walkers.  I slowed as I neared each human encroaching on the roadway, certain that I had a moral if not a legal obligation to insure that I scooted the Prius beyond their vulnerable bodies without mishap.

As I turned onto Rockhill Road’s north by northeast leg from 71st street, the local public radio station announced that they would be launching a brief test of the Emergency Broadcasting System.  Had I felt so inclined, I could have closed my eyes and been six again, down in the fruit cellar of our Jennings home, huddled on cots amid the canned food and the stashes of blankets.  This is a test. . . This is only a test.  Had this been an actual emergency, you would have been given instructions. . .

Every child knew the drill in those days.  Our parents and teachers had trained us.  We heard the screech of the Zenith and the Motorola and headed for the basement stairs, where the oldest siblings took charge of the youngest and those in the middle gathered at their parents’ heels.

I doubt my son knows what that meant, the fear, the worry, the weeks on end of practice at lunch time on the school playgrounds.

I guided my car north on Holmes street, just blocks from where I live.  The sun sank in the west.  The brief test on 89.3 had given way to an interview with several impossibly young commentators about Jon Stewart’s impending last broadcast of the Daily Show.  I pulled into my driveway thinking, I have no complaints.  No matter what might confront me, I do not live in war; I do not live in terror; I do not live in poverty, famine, or widespread incurable disease.

This is only a test.  Had this been an actual emergency, in 2015, given the state of the world, your only recourse would have been prayer.

I went into the house, put my laptop on the secretary, and let the dog into the kitchen.  She was glad to see me.