Imagination presents to our minds objects that do not actually exist.

The other day I walked 26 miles . Returning home on the bus, calves wracked with spasms of pain, I tried to catch some sleep. From the seat behind me I overheard snippets of conversation. "My kitchen has a bed and a fireplace in it." "Hello little girl, what are you doing in the forest?" "Can I give the boy some of my rice cake? He's blushing." "There's a fashion show starting in the forest." "Why would you wear black? I'm wearing something wild. Red, green, maybe blue."

Mortimer Jerome Adler, because he had not learned to swim and was otherwise non-athletic, was unable to fulfill the requirement then in place of swimming laps in the Columbia College pool and was therefore unable to complete the requirements for his bachelor's degree. He continued his studies without a degree and went on to develop a course of study based on the great books of Western Philosophy. Much of my early education, and probably the development of my imaginative powers, was based upon the readings of the Great Books. Imagination presents to our minds objects that do not actually exist. It is the power by which we explore the realm of the possible. When our senses cooperate with our intellects and we are not conceptually blind, we can imagine objects which may exist at some future time, or which are merely figments or fictions of our imagination. They are intelligible to us, even though we understand them as constructed by us, such as mermaids and centaurs.

The bus driver called out "First call for Fall River". All of us remained seated. This section of the terminal was shared by companies that headed to points south, Fall River, Massachusetts, and points north, Dover, Portsmouth New Hampshire. He looked side to side, and just sort of hung there. My mind raced: Was he upset? Would he leave with an empty bus? Would he lose his job because people have stopped traveling to Fall River?

There's a woman wearing baggy clothes shoving coin after coin into a payphone. Her back is to me, but I know she's upset. She's speaking intently. Her body is tight and stiff. I overhear, "but I'm here now"; "where do you want me to go?"  She's pressed against the phone stand, and I soon realize that she is cradling a small poodle, decked out in a bandanna and sweater. She hangs up the phone, shoves more coins in, and dials again; but not before kissing the dog several times. She follows the same pattern for twenty minutes: shove the coins, kiss the dog, dial a number, plead her case. The dog gets more fidgety with each call and finally jumps to the floor. He and the Fall River bus driver stare at each other. The woman scoops up the dog and continues her calls. Our "life is made of patterns that can scarcely be controlled."

I am startled by the loud bang of a phone against the metal back of its stand. A tall, lanky, tattooed man stomps across my path and flings a backpack into the corner of the waiting area. He continues his fast pace to another part of the terminal. I look around, everyone's looking away. Some fake indifference; others are engrossed in conversation or lost to a tune on their MP3 player. Where's the Fall River driver? He's in his bus, picking up trash. I wait for the next public service announcement: "All unattended luggage will be confiscated. Please report any unattended luggage". When it next starts up, I'll jump up and cry out "Over here!" None comes. The usually endless loop of a message is silent. I sit in a state of panic, knowing that there is nothing between me and ten pounds of explosives. My ID is out of date, I've moved several times since it was last updated. The organ donor scan for body parts should still be valid, but I'll be vegetable soup, compost for a cannibal's garden.

Too many tattoos scare me. I don't know whether to be relieved or not, but the stranger rejoins his backpack. He sits on the floor with legs crossed, facing me. There are others on both sides of me; but he's facing me.

• He had no friends, he seldom spoke
• And no one in turn ever spoke to him,
• 'Cause he wasn't friendly and he didn't care
• And he wasn't like them.
• Oh, no! he was a most peculiar man.

I have a ticket for my destination. I'm homeward bound. I lost track of the woman and the dog. In the back of my mind I had thought that maybe, if the Fall River bus was to have no passengers, she and her dog could ride with the driver and keep him company. I had imagined that on the other end of her calls was a son or a daughter who refused to meet her at the station. She was not wanted or welcome in their home.

The "Homeless" in Portsmouth travel all day on the free shuttle. In mid afternoon they stop at whichever supermarket is serving samples that day. The "sample" schedule travels the grapevine. When I travel the shuttle in the morning I'll overhear heated discussions over the value of free coffee and cheese at Market Basket versus the day's offering at the church kitchen. They always sit in the back. To avoid being robbed, many carry all their belongings. They can't stay at the shelter during the day, and trust is not a virtue when you are homeless. They have backpacks, as do I when I am traveling. The difference is that I have a destination.

That's where my head was as I sat in the bus station dirty cap precariously askew on top of my earphones, well worn backpack and my fingers nervously tapping metal buttons in my pockets.

• Sitting on a park bench
• eyeing little girls with bad intent.
• Snot running down his nose.
• greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.

• Voices leaking from a sad cafe
• Smiling faces try to understand
• I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand
• On Bleeker Street

The intellectual imagination enriches human experience by giving us the power to deal with objects that are not accessible to other animals. The world in which animals live is limited to that which is perceptually present or remembered.

Yes, after I had walked 26 miles  I was dehydrated, tired beyond belief, and my brain fried after seven hours in the sun without a hat. But I jotted down the conversation as I remembered it when I returned to my house. "My kitchen has a bed and a fireplace in it." "Hello little girl, what are you doing in the forest?" "Can I give the boy some of my rice cake? He's blushing." "There's a fashion show starting in the forest." "Why would you wear black? I'm wearing something wild. Red, green, maybe blue." But that's a story for another day.

For now, you may enjoy reading: Like a poem poorly written.

Also, may I recommend for your enjoyment: Children at play, marks or rubes?

Whether they are made of pork, as is most often the case, or of beef, veal, buck, goat, chamois, venison, sheep, wild boar, or horse, cured meats (salumi in Italian) were born of a need to conserve meat for months after the slaughter of the animal. Salting, smoking, and air-drying are the three processes by which fresh meat is transformed into a long-keeping staple.

While all meats are salted, some are smoked, and others are simply air-dried. Italians have been making an amazing array of cured meats for thousands of years using both noble and humble parts of the animals they raise. The ancient Romans prized the spicy pork sausages crafted in the southern region of Basilicata (called Lucania then, and giving rise to sausages named Lucaniche still eaten today). And, fond of intensely tasty foods, they smoked or salted whole pig thighs, yielding savory Prosciutti not unlike those still made in mountain villages across Italy.

Two thousand years later, pork remains Italy's favorite meat for curing. Pigs are especially prevalent in areas where there is a notable cheesemaking tradition: after all, wherever there is cheese, there is excess whey, which, combined with bran and corn, becomes perfect feed for pigs.

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