Joe saved my life as well as Donna’s life and Don’s life.  Don was pretty grateful so he got us more tickets to the Boston Red Sox.  Joe and I, for once, decided to have a good time and not think about other people.  Father Rich was in jail along with all of his accomplices.  No one would be getting out in a long time.  The game was good and afterwards, we went to China town to eat a meal.  I told Joe that I thought I had an idea for a column finally for the paper.  He wanted to know what it was.  I told him it was about small town life and how people helped one another in a time of need.  And how most people want that sort of life which is why we seek it out.  I told him that I wanted to write a column, but not for my town.  Not for the Bugle.  But the Pontiac paper.  I said that now that my daughter was at school full time, it made no sense to stay in this area with it s corruption, defrocked priests, crazy senior citizens and raging alcoholics.  I wanted to write a column that took place in a small town.  Or, at the very least, about what a small town should be and how the feelings people have for one another in a small town should be in all towns.  “What  are you going to name it?”  Asked Joe. I thought about the guy with the picket sign outside of the newspaper office.  “Anywhere but here,” I answered then took a sip of my coffee.  Without the scotch.