Stan is moving slow. Ridiculously slow.

This is not new; accompanied by his blind dog, my neighbor Stan always moves slow.

It’s his mantra. Or his dog’s. Either way, when I see Stan rambling down my rural road, I take a deep breath and steel myself for a conversation with no foreseeable resolve.

Usually, I am happy that I took a few minutes to slow down. Stan is inherently interesting, and often sends me on adventures that begin with the directive to “turn left when you see the old cemetery.”

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