Before arriving in South Carolina, Shana told Laura and me something I think we already understood intellectually: "You might want to avoid the subject of politics for the duration of your stay."

I never had to trot it out, but I had my response ready should anyone ask me my opinion of the war: "I just hope it's over quickly."

Like I say, I never had to use my response, but Shana herself certainly had a brush with the need. While we were at the steeplechase Saturday, she wandered over to where I was attepting not to eat very much of the food piled on a friend's tailgate.

"See that fellow over there in the green Polo shirt?" she asked.

I looked and saw a fiftyish fellow one tailgate over, sitting in a lawn chair surrounded by friends and family. His hair was dark silver, slicked back, and his pencil-line mustache was trimmed meticulously.

"I see him," I said.

"That's Mr. Blunderbuss-Wesson*, an old friend of the family's. I was just over talking to him. He asks me, 'You live in New York now?' I say, 'Yes.' He says, 'You were there when the Twin Towers got hit?' I say, 'Yes.' And he says, 'Don't worry, we'll git 'em for you.'"

Somehow, I'm not looking for quite that much Southern hospitality.