Sunday Morning Just Crashed Down.

I couldn't pay the subscription fee for our big regional paper, so that delivery was stopped some months ago; with it went my Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. Our local paper (which I just managed to pay for) is an afternoon one five days a week, and then one issue Sunday morning. Six papers a week. It contained the non-Sunday New York Times crossword puzzles, Monday's through Saturday's, with the Saturday puzzle being printed in the Sunday morning edition.

*For non-crossword fans, the Sunday New York Times is an extra-big puzzle, usually with some trick or pun to it. It is almost always a challenge, at least for me. The weekly puzzles start out easy on Monday and get incrementally more difficult throughout the week, with the Saturday puzzle frequently being more difficult than even the big one on Sunday.

The Sunday New York Times crossword was always a lot of fun, but I haven't missed it TOO terribly much because I still had a puzzle to do on Sunday morning, a puzzle that frequently took me all day to get solved.

To stretch out the fun, I save the puzzle for last. I read the paper, including the inserts, check the sale ads, chuckle at the funnies, and then, then I turn to the classified section to open it to my crossword. This morning, there was something wrong with the crossword. I thought it was a misprint. It was so small, it didn't take up the space cleared for it, and the answers all looked to be short little words. It had to be a misprint. Then I looked closer. It is a crossword. A baby crossword. A crossword embryo, born prematurely before it developed to the stage of having polysyllabic words. A crossword that couldn't cross a cul-de-sac by itself, let alone go down to the local newspaper.

There was no explanation. How could someone shatter my Sunday mornings with no explanation? What did I do? Did I anger the newspaper gods by my inability to pay the subscription bill to the big paper? Did I enjoy too much the negative view of a modern newspaper depicted in the wonderful, complex offering that was Season Five of "The Wire?" What happened? Where is my crossword? How can I enjoy my Sunday properly without facing a puzzle that at first glance appears insolvable, but that then gradually over the day opens itself to my understanding? And how can I face the week without looking forward to the crossword puzzles from Thursdays on? The anticipation of the more difficult puzzles helps me to face the assault on my resources that is the beginning of each week. Monday's puzzles I scorn. Tuesday's puzzles I scoff at. Wednesday's puzzles I deign to skim over, as once in a while one looks like it might make me think for a moment or two. And then there is Thursday, with a puzzle that I can be sure is going to take me a little while, that will make me think on at least some of the clues, that can fool me and puzzle me and confound me, at least a little bit. Friday's puzzles are even better, then I get the fun of delayed gratification in waiting an extra day for the puzzle prize that is the Saturday New York Times crossword.

Then this. I don't know how I'll face the day. How can I fill my time? What will I do? I am bereft. Will Shortz, is this your fault? Tell me, what did I do? WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID??

The newspaper lies scattered around my chair, mute.

A