When I'm 64!

Okay, it's actually 63. That is, the 63rd birthday of the Allies' start of the bloody process of liberating France. Alas, I'd forgotten until, while on my run in Georgetown on the ancient C&O Canal Towpath (a 70 or 80 mile trek in full), I saw French, American, and British flags on a tiny shop front. The owner, with curlers in her hair, almost shouted "Thank you, America" as I passed with a Navy hat on. (Haven't gotten anything but grief-vitriol overseas as an American of late*—so it came as a shock.) Anyway, she is very, very French, and has had her shop for about 15 years; she topped things off with an invitation to stop by in the afternoon for champagne.

Hats off to our Normandy vets, now all in their 80s, from the U.S., Canada, Britain, Australia, New Zealand, etc.—brave members of a true "coalition of the willing."

*In the past, overseas, I've observed dismay at the resident of 1600 PA Ave. But this time it's inclusive—we are all getting grief.