This is an opinion column

On the way to a funeral in Atlanta a month ago, the familiar snarl of traffic got to us just when we drove from the four lanes leading into the city to the eight or ten lanes that welcome visitors to traffic hell.

A baby riding in his car seat a few yards away opened his mouth in a scream like that famous painting by the same name. I couldn’t hear him, but I thought he was complaining about the traffic, too.