I don't think I could listen to it that way. I just couldn't. Because it's no longer six years ago.
Six years ago, I had myself a bit of a commute, you see. I'd warm up the car on cold Sunderland winter mornings around 6:45 or so, crunching around the frozen mud, taking an ice scraper to all windows while the engine ran with the radio on and Bob Edwards' muffled voice mingled with the engine noise. I'd leave Sunderland (and a beautiful woman inside the apartment, still wrapped up in her blue bedsheets and blankets, all tangled red hair and drowsy smiles) about 15 minutes later. You knew the car was ready when you tapped the accelerator and the engine revved down. Oh, don't you run that engine cold, Mr. Spatch. That ol car's a cranky beast and a half as it is.
Off I'd go, 90 miles to
The job's gone. So's the woman, the apartment, and the car, even. Everything changes.
It would break my heart to discover that the Writer's Almanac hadn't.