An armed gang of crackheads fired into our house five times while we were in it, the breeze from a passing bullet lifting the hair in my husband's bangs. I'd call that close. A 20,000 pound oak tree fell on our next house while we were in it, and one of the limbs that slammed through the roof actually pushed my husband forward toward me in the direction of the kitchen. I'd call that close.

In 1972 the Howard Johnson sniper in New Orleans supposedly gunned down 19 people. (I say supposedly because some of the shots may have been friendly fire, memory fades now.) I had to walk past the Howard Johnson every day to go to work 1981-1982. My mom said, you guessed it: "Don't walk near the Howard Johnson." I probably made my mom very sad with my recklessness but I'd call that "not close."

Bazillions of people walk past, stay in, or have meetings in big hotels in big cities. We may get a little shiver of mortality but it doesn't mean we were really that close. It does give you a funny feeling though, doesn't it?