The pitch to my partner: “I plan to write an August column about my left-wing 1950s summer camp.”

Her response: “You’ve done that … more than once.”

My re-response: “OK, how about writing the 1960s September school years with my pot-puffing university pals?”

Her re-re-response “Ditto. Done that.”

I turned 76 this month. There are health issues, but I’m still breathing. And I ought to be writing a column that my PCE (personal copy editor) won’t send back to the keyboard.