Mama said there'd be days like this

I was finally brought to the verge of tears today sometime just before 6 p.m.

Short version? After finally getting requested statistics on car accidents yesterday, the research librarian was working her magic on my data, whittling 305 pages into six. My looming deadline went out the door with my editor, I was still waiting on two pages, I'd miscounted the ones I had--twice, I was brain dead from the numbers. And still had nine inches to write--well and accurately--for its Sunday run.

There a certain moments when Friday Night Plans and Working Late run a distant second to Getting The Story Done. And my Editor's Wrath.

And then an angel swooped in, a grey-haired editor, diehard journalist at heart. Against my wails and stooped shoulders, he grabbed the stack and started from the top. He pulled a chair; I sat cross-legged. He read; I tallied.

"Come on," he said. "We'll be done in 10 minutes."

It actually took about 30, but he truly saved me. He brushed off my sincere thanks and escaped outside for a cigarette.

Long after he'd gone, taking that strangely comforting stale smoky scent with him, I worked and wrote, piecing together the facts, the people, the story puzzle, imbued with new energy, inspired by camaraderie. I was out the door at 8:25 p.m., copy of story in hand.

I could've driven further south to art, friends and drinks. Or I could've driven east to the beach. But I rolled onto the couch instead, free of the week's tension, grabbed a cold beer. And sat down to work on a 30-page paper.

I know. I know. But CSI: Miami's on in the background and I have words--albeit academic--as my company.

I've also been reminded that there are good people in my life, who will hold me up when I need, not because they want something, but because they care. And because that's just who they are. As solid as words.