It’s Thursday, and I’m, as usual, Th(ink)ing. Saturday was my 69th birthday, and Hubs gave me a gift only a lifelong scholar would think of: a distillation of thoughts on time. His own, Saint Augustine’s, and Wendell Berry’s. Some women get roses. Some get diamonds. I get footnotes. Don’t misunderstand, I like roses and diamonds, but a man who quotes Augustine on your birthday is a keeper. Birthdays have a way of pointing a finger at you and saying, none too subtly, “Gurlfrie