The Bell Curve:

Perhaps the toughest step in writing a column is deciding what to write about. Once that decision is made, the columnist can get words on paper that may or may not work. But at least the process is underway, started, usually by consulting a list of possible subjects from which to choose.

My list this week included the surfacing — well preempted Tuesday by Steve Smith — of the frustration of Costa Mesa Councilwoman Katrina Foley after listening to six years of the same bad-mouthing from the floor.

Or the recurring examples of homophobia that have cost both Costa Mesa and Newport Beach a good deal of settlement money.

Or the expansion of John Wayne Airport that is nothing of the kind, we are told.

Or — God bless it — the opening of a new baseball season offering temporary relief from all of the above.

Looking over my list didn’t light any fires. Or even a flame or two. Such restlessness over subject matter is not new. Happens most every week. But hitting a wall was something else. And that took me, finally, to asking myself what was the residue in my mind and heart after more than three months of virtually wall-to-wall guests — who became family — in my home.

Most of these visits were not planned that way, starting with Ebbe Skovdal, my family’s first American Field Service foreign student, now pushing 60, who stayed with us while attending a business conference nearby. Then our French friends, Howard and Francoise Appel, had to cancel a projected trip to Thailand and turn to Plan B, which included an enthusiastic invitation to headquarter their 10-week California visit at my home. Interspersed with their side trips were friends and relatives rallying around some health problems in my family and weekend visits from old friends unaware of our long run of company.

All of these visits required provision of meals, laundering of bedding and towels, and transportation of visitors in a family setting in which two members were working. And looking back, I marvel that we emerged not only still friends but probably better people.

I’m not going to pretend there were no edgy times. Showers sometimes ended with cold water, coffee ran out, and faith versus reason debates around the dinner table became arguments that were put aside by the time dessert was served. And throughout this period, both the work and expense were divided equably. Finally, we have dear friends Richard and Lee Thomas arriving during the first week in May from Portland, Ore., to provide the capstone of our flow of guests. They are well acquainted with the drill hereabouts and require no special attention beyond a passel of subjects that invite updating and debate.

During World War II Richard was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge and has a fascinating story I’ll relate here some Thursday. Meanwhile, in the Battle of the Kitchen I have promised not to rearrange Lee’s loading of my dishwasher — an ego problem we have never fully resolved.

So what emerged, finally, from all this hosting, to claim a permanent place in my psyche? To me, it was a fuller recognition of how terribly important good friends are in our life. All this took place intermixed with some personal challenges that had to be — and were — met. Instead of complicating that period, our visitors made it easier. And I continue to be impressed at how good I am at choosing friends.

Which brings us to the one item on my list where timing requires immediate comment: the opening of a new major league baseball season. I usually do my stock column at this point, seeing baseball as a microcosm of life, where the game is never over until the last man is out and “Take Me Out To the Ball Game” is granted equal stature with the Star Spangled Banner.

I attended two of the Angels’ first five games, both losses in which they looked terrible. Especially the rookie, Brandon Wood, who was judged so ready to take his place in the regular line-up that the Angels let go of Chone Figggins, the best lead-off man in the business. I saw Wood strike out five times while delivering one hit. And the Angels can’t send him back to the minors to find his swing without losing him and a multimillion dollar investment. So the season is on, Wood is off, the Angels best pitcher for the last six years is playing for Boston, and my one-fourth of a season ticket is looking dubious. But the game isn’t over until … well, you know the rest of it. Play ball!

JOSEPH N. BELL lives in Newport Beach. His column runs Thursdays.