My late wife somehow had invited the entire U.S. Supreme Court to our house, the place we lived in a Detroit suburb before retirement. I recall picking them up from somewhere and taking them to the house, wondering if the minivan would break down from the weight. I've no idea why they were there, but I had to go back to work. I told my editor that there might be a story in this, but he was reluctant to let me go. I finally went home for lunch and found the justices socializing in our now-larger-than-life bedroom, apparently in fine spirits. I didn't have any paper to take notes on. One, it might have been Scalia, handed me a pad of yellow lined paper. It had all been written upon. The only faces I recognized were Scalia and Sotomayor. I pondered whether to call them by their first names.
Hell, if they were socializing in my bedroom, why wouldn't I?
On waking, the thought of the entire Court in my minivan brought back a scary memory: The entire pulchrltrude of the White Plains High School cheerleading squad, circa 1954, in my 1931 Model A touring car (4-door convertible), for a post-game ride to a local cider mill. The car had soft springs and no shocks, and on one turn, it swayed, as they say, precariously. I don't know how they happened to be in the car. They knew me, but I never dared to ask any of them for a date.
