One day late last autumn, I strode in the house, flung off my coat and hollered, "Riely, do we know what time the moon rises?"
"Look on the mirror," he hollered back. We weren't mad-hollering; we were just excited. We'd hatched a plan to drive up to Lake Michigan for dinner at the Roadhouse, and then watch the Harvest Moon rise as we rode home.
The post-it note on the mirror read 7:19. Working backward, as is his wont, he proposed a well-timed schedule. I proposed, as is my wont, that we take the prettiest route possible.