We are all mad here, said the Cheshire Cat. I am not mad, but my wife thinks and often points out that there is a strangeness about me. I do not protest, but rejoice in her assessment. At times, like most people, she can be out of sorts. I offer to get some at the store when I go out, if only she would tell me in what aisle to find them. She is my muse of course, offering up gems that I freely use in my writing such as this one: “Without my knowledge, someone has signed me up for the falling apart club.” Ah, the accompaniments of aging.