Like the day in January when I see my tax preparer, the day in October when the Blue Angels return to our skies comes with terrible implacability. There are few things I hate with such complete unambivalence, announced by the ear-reaming roars the cause every pet within miles to scooch under the bed and tremble. I was picking apples when one went skimming past. There is a fascination is witnessing so efficient a death machine, but I didn’t look up; I cringed, waiting for the crash and the fiery explosion. Last summer at a family gathering I learned that one of my cousin’s nephews or was it son-in-law is a backup pilot. I nodded, as if impressed. I didn’t mention my crash-and-burn fantasies.