So, yesterday came and sifted away without my ever having written about the factoid I'd come across. A puny, insignificant discovery, but my interest was piqued. Doesn't take much. Two fellows, one born a poor country boy [in 1935], the other born in 1895, a poor, hard luck city boy, each blessed with gifts that would delight and astonish. And Elvis Presley and Geo. Herman "Babe" Ruth [plus countless chariotloads of other souls down the millennia] share a deathday, Aug. 16. The day we go out is as worthy of note as the day we come in, I reckon. But no, I'd just as soon not think about it. Still, my granny liked to point out that people get things all mixed up, sorrowing at a funeral, for someone whose troubles are over, then celebrating at a wedding for a pair whose trouble has just begun.