Am I dreaming?

7:45 a.m.

I know it is early, but do I hear bagpipes?

I open our front door.  I can't see the bagpiper but I can hear him in front of the Ansley Golf Club next door.  He's a Pied Piper.  I watch men in suits lured from the parking lots in streams to the front of the clubhouse, as if they are entranced by the sound.

I want to go see the piper, and see if he's wearing a kilt, but I can't.  I'm standing ready to drive my son to school as soon as he bursts out of his room, wild-eyed, and says "Mom?  Are you ready?" as if I'm the one who has been holding us up.

A St. Patrick's Day breakfast?  That must be it.

I hear "Mom?" behind me.  I grab my keys and head for the car.


8:10 a.m.

I'm back from the frantic run to school, but the piper is gone.  Disappeared into the early morning mists.  But I'd caught a glimpse of the piper earlier, as we waited to turn onto Montgomery Ferry Drive on the way to school. 

She was small, and wore black, with black and red tartan.  (She looked somewhat like the man in this photo, but with prettier hair.)

I realize that I had automatically pictured not only a man, but also a Scottish Highlands piper, all wrong for St. Patrick's Day.  Back inside, I jump on the computer and spend too much time learning about Irish pipes, then Scottish, then pipes from around the world.  Swedish bagpipes? Turkish bagpipes?  Who knew? 

I finally force myself to close the tab, and walk away. 

It's as intoxicating to me as green beer, this investigation into arcane facts that I likely will never use again. 

Plus, there's no hangover.