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 |  It's who we are. It's what we stare at in the middle of the night. It's a bug zapper. |
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My friends, When we were young and newly hatched—also young and in love—my husband and I lived with our four young children on the Space Coast of Florida. The massive propulsion of rocket and shuttle launches from Cape Kennedy often rocked the windows and doors of our little love cottage. We were always properly respectful and impressed by the reach of mankind’s achievements. It was a point of pride to stop whatever we were doing (dishes, dinner, dancing, sleeping, fist fighting, etc.) to watch the eastern horizon—hands on hearts, tears in eyes—as the United States of America raced into the frontier of space. One deep, dark morning (about 2:00 am) I shook my husband awake to watch yet another triumph of human advancement. “Get up,” I mumbled to Sherwood, “the shuttle’s going up. We gotta’ watch.” Sherwood moaned, “The garbage is out all ready. Let me die.” He did not open his eyes. “Come on. We should watch. Night launches are amazing.” He dragged himself upright and clung to the window ledge behind our bed. We knelt, with our chins braced on the ledge, our bleary eyes fixed on a blazing light in the eastern sky. We watched. The light did not appear to move. We stared some more. The light remain fixed. We struggled to focus. The light blazed away. We waited for the light to fade into the blackness of space. It did not. We watched and watched and watched. The light stubbornly refused to move. At last, collapsing back into my pillow I said, “Honey, go back to sleep.” Sounding confused, miffed, and a little whiney Sherwood asked, “Why?” “Because for the last eight to ten minutes we’ve been staring at our next door neighbor’s bug zapper.” He went back to sleep. And I lived to worship at the altar of space exploration another day. This story pretty much sums up who we are, and how we got this way—excessive staring at bug zappers. And this is my blog, a space-age way of recording one’s thoughts, ideas, embarrassments, and foibles for the entire known world. Once upon a time, I would have made this record on papyrus, rolled it up, stuffed it into a ceramic jar, and asked to have the whole thing buried with me in my sarcophagus. I still might. Disclaimer: Some of the stuff you will read here is true. Some of it is not. Some of it is the result of wishful thinking. Some of it is the result of too much thinking, and some of it is the result of too little thinking. But all of it will be written with joy and laughter, because the alternative is despair and weeping, and isn’t there more than enough of that stuff out there? Thank you for your support, Linda (Zippity the Zapped) Zern |
| My husband’s horse, Miss Kitty, is a big, sorrel, foundation quarter horse; she is a sneak thief and a plotter. She plots mayhem and, I am convinced, is capable of murder most foul. Recently, she tried to kill me with a bag of concrete. While Sherwood traveled the world Miss Kitty tipped over a ladder, broke onto the back porch, and bent a metal gate rail with her mind or her enormous block of a head. Then she dragged bales of hay out of the hay room with her teeth. Then she tried to kill me. When she couldn’t reach any more hay, she dragged a fifty-pound bag of Quick-Crete off the workbench. She then dropped the fifty-pound bag into the goat’s water bucket. Where it became a stone or a rock or a stony rock of a stumbling block. Here’s where it gets diabolical. Miss Kitty, knowing that I would leave the enormous chunk of newly minted rock right where it dropped so that I could teach my husband an important lesson on how difficult my life is while he’s out traveling the world, stepped back and waited. The lump of rock remained where it hardened. It was only a matter of time before I fell over the rock lump and bashed knee, hip, elbow, and hand into the cement floor of the workshop. Somehow Miss Kitty knew. She knew that Mavis the Goat would be chasing me through the gate, trying to beat me into the feed room. She knew that I would forget about trying to teach my husband a lesson because I would be trying to teach that idiot goat a lesson. She knew that I would be distracted and fall over that concrete rock. She knew. As I lay on the floor listening to my bones rattle and trying to decide if I’d broken my will to live, I cried and blamed my husband. Miss Kitty is his horse after all. Linda (Black and Blue) Zern |
| We live in the country and by country I mean that at night we can hear coyotes yipping and during the day we can drive 4.7 miles to our choice of five different banks and the Dunkin Donuts. We live over the bridge and past the sharp curve, next to the pasture where the wild turkeys roost. We also live on a dead end road right down from the county animal control center (i.e. the pound.) Which means that city folks, people who live five minutes from the bank, who just can’t bring themselves to take their pregnant girl cat to the pound drive to the end of our street and dump Fluffy off in front of our house. Then they tell their children that they’ve taken Fluffy to the country. Big fat liars. Fluffy immediately goes feral. Feral is a word that means wild. It’s the equivalent of Fluffy becoming a saber-toothed tiger with a dash of bad tempered panther. Then pregnant feral Fluffy takes up residence under our chicken coop, looking to eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow she delivers—two to two hundred kittens. The next thing I know, my husband and I are forced to organize a cat roundup complete with live animal traps, bait, welding gloves, and assorted ancient hunting methods. Or as our granddaughter Zoe (9) said to her mom on their way to our house, “I sure hope I don’t miss the cat roundup.” Cat roundups may sound fun. They’re not. They’re harrowing invitations to divorce as evidenced by the following exchange. “Babe, hurry! Get the cat carrier! I’ve got her,” I said, during a recent cat roundup. Wearing gardening gloves, I’d managed to sneak up on a hissing, spitting mother of SEVEN new kittens and grab her by the scruff of her neck. She’d had her SEVEN adorable kittens in our hen’s nesting box. “Hang on,” he yelled, “I need to find my welding gloves.” The black, yellow-eyed demon continued to hiss and spit while I started to sweat. Her tail whipped back and forth. Her SEVEN kittens yawned and stretched. “Hey,” he continued, “where are my welding gloves?” “Are you kidding? I’m holding a panther in here by my arthritic fingertips.” The hissing became snarling. He wandered into the chicken coop, pulling on his gloves and carrying the cat carrier upside down. “Seriously, Dude, hurry up.” The snarling exploded into yowling mixed with screaming. Mine. I tried to push the cat into the fifty-dollar deluxe leather cat carrier. She shape shifted into a flying squirrel and launched her thrashing body, claws extended, at my husband’s right eye. There was more screaming. His. She landed against the back wall of the chicken coop and stuck. “Get her!” She shape-shifted into an invisible banshee ghost and disappeared. Her SEVEN adorable kittens meowed sweetly, flexed their tiny dagger claws, and fell asleep. “Why did you let her get away?” I snapped. “You dropped her.” “My hands are small. You know that.” The conversation deteriorated from there and before it was over he was calling me a big whiney baby, and I was accusing him of being a foot-dragging slacker. And we don’t even own any cats. Please, I’m begging you. Take care of your cats. The marriage you save may be mine. Linda (Great White Hunter) Zern |
| While our peers were disco dancing my high school sweetheart and I got married. Before it was cool. Before Madonna thought it was a good idea. Before the crowd decided there was nothing better to do. We got married and we stayed married because we didn’t own luggage. True story. Selfish, young, and dumb, we fought. At any given time, one of us always wanted to walk away from the sacrifices and demands of married life and go disco dancing. But we didn’t, because there was nothing to put our clothes in except black, plastic garbage bags, and that would have been humiliating. So, we hung in there. In the beginning, we had our pride and not much else. We started out stupid, poor and prideful. Thirty-four years later, we became the best of ourselves. We stayed married and had babies. Our peers called our babies, “Drape Apes” and “Carpet Munchers.” And then they went disco dancing. We stayed home and learned how to take care of other human beings, putting their needs before our own. “I have no patience. I could never have children,” said our teachers and professors, and then they showed us slides of their dogs. We smiled, went home, and went to work. We wiped bottoms and kissed boo-boos. We discovered that no one is born patient. Or selfless. Or amazing. They are acquired skills like disco dancing. Our babies grew up and challenged everything we thought we knew. We hung in there, drawing lines in the sand. When our oldest son inevitably flopped his big, hairy teenage toe over the line, I chopped his toe off (metaphorically speaking,) only to have him grow a new toe and flop it over the line—again and again. I complained to my best friend, “Consistent? Under the words consistent parenting in the dictionary you’ll find my picture. I chop that boy’s toe off every single time he flops it over the line. Every. Single. Time.” “Maybe, you’re using too sharp a knife,” she said—wise woman my best friend. And we hung in there. Last Saturday we celebrated our oldest son’s wedding and watched our ten grandchildren disco dance their way through the reception. They break danced and hip hopped and strutted. We laughed and clapped and rejoiced—surrounded. My husband and I danced, literally surrounded, by our children and grandchildren. We own luggage now and all the other stuff we were told we would never have because we got married and had children. We have lots of stuff and could have more stuff if we wanted it. But this next part I’m going to whisper. Thirty-four years later we discovered that better than stuff, better than disco dancing, we have the best of ourselves because we have them and they have us. Linda (Dancing With the Stars) Zern |
| Aric got married Saturday. He’s the oldest and the last and now I can rest in the shade of the tree from which I cut the laurel wreath of my success as a mother. Let me rejoice and take up oil painting or green bean growing or apply to be on the Osceola county volunteer mounted posse. You don’t have to tell me twice. In my “retirement” from mothering I intend to collect free horses and try to turn them into the sorts of beasts that don’t run away when people fly helicopters at them. When my first child was married I was given a book, informing me that my duties as the mother-of-the-newly-married-person should include ONLY the sharing of an occasional home remedy and a recipe—if I knew any. Anything else constituted meddling. You don’t have to tell me twice. Then the phone calls started coming. “Mom, you’ve got to help me,” The newly married Heather said. “Only if this is for a recipe and/or a remedy,” I said. “How do you roll crescent rolls?” “You mean the kind in the can?” “Are there another kind?” She sounded a little bit miffed. “Well, find the point on the triangle,” I instructed, wisely. “The point? There are three points. It’s nothing but points,” she pouted. “Yes, true. There are three points, but I don’t think that it’s an equilateral triangle.” Finally, a use for my college mathematics, I felt smug. “What the flip are you talking about? I rolled one up and it looks like poop.” “That can’t be right,” I reassured. WHAT I SAID NEXT: “Just roll up the long edge, so that the little apex of the triangle is on top, and then bend it into a little crescent, moon shape.” WHAT SHE HEARD: “Roll up the quadrihexial axis of doughy junk around a stick and fling it at the moon.” “Okay Mom, listen I have to go now, because I have a nosebleed,” Heather said, sounding muffled and stuffy from the ensuing nosebleed. “Okay dear. Just apply pressure to your nose, but don’t tilt your head back. Goodbye and good remedy.” Regarding the book with tips for mothers of the newly married—my daughter (wise beyond her cooking skill level) finally reassured me, “Forget the book. The book is crap. That’s not our family. It will never be our family. Just be yourself that kind of meddling has always worked before.” True. I can’t say we always roll our crescent rolls the way everybody else does, but we do have a certain style, and that’s always worked before. Linda (Leave A Message) Zern |
| “The fact of the matter is” that doublespeak is everywhere, and “the bottom line” continues to be a shaky black mark, which may or may not be at the bottom of things, depending on who’s talking. Doublespeak is the art of saying one thing, meaning another, and hoping nobody figures it out until after the election. My favorite “doublespeak” is often used by governmental agencies like the turtle police out at Cape Canaveral. Cape Canaveral is a national wildlife refuge—also a swampy deterrent for enemy spies trying to peek at NASA stuff. It’s cool. We grow gators, egrets, raccoons, and turtles at Cape Canaveral. Turtles have great PR at the Cape. We love turtles. We have to love turtles or run the risk of being put in the same category as the raccoons. Raccoons are turtle egg eating buttheads, and so they must be “selectively reduced.” We hate raccoons. We have to hate them or run the risk of being “selectively reduced” like the raccoons. Which brings us to the doublespeak portion of our discussion. Selective reduction is turtle police talk for what happens to raccoons when too many raccoons fall in love, get married, and make too many baby raccoons at Cape Canaveral. Excessive raccoons spend all their free, non-baby making time looking for turtle eggs to eat. Stupid raccoons. We hate you. Selective reduction is doublespeak, and doesn’t it sound sensitive and reasonable? Of course it does. It sounds like crowds of caring scientists are out there wandering around the swamp picking and choosing raccoons to relocate to new and less troublesome areas of the planet. That’s not what it means. At a program to educate the public about the importance of more funding for the turtle police, I raised my hand and asked, “Do you selectively reduce the raccoons with a hammer or a club?” The turtle police were not amused. In England they’re trying to “cull” badgers but the “Up With Badgers” people sued and then chained themselves to some badgers. I don’t know if they cull the badgers with knives or spears. NOTE: Please don’t misunderstand; I’m all about “Up With Turtles.” I just wish the turtle police would be up front with their euphemisms. Don’t act like you’ve never crushed the life out of a pesky turtle egg eating raccoon. Of course you have. And you liked it too. Life is messy. Science is a business. Life science is a messy business like everything else and Mother Nature is a ravenous turtle egg eating bimbo. Linda (Shoot Straight) Zern |
| Remember that Disney movie where the little girl was always looking on the bright side of things until you wanted to hold her head in the toilet and flush? You know the girl with “the stubby little nose.” That’s what the mean old lady in the movie told her, “You have a stubby little nose.” My mother tortured me with that girl. “Why can’t you be more like Pollyanna?” she would say. I didn’t need an older sister to resent. I had Pollyanna. For a kid whose first spoken language was sarcasm and whose second language was smart mouth, Pollyanna was my overly cheerful nemesis. Then I gave birth to several grouch monger children of my own, and I realized that there were worse things then being excessively positive. My youngest daughter’s first full sentence might have been, “I hates woods-peckers.” She was two. I tried to set a good example. I tried to teach my children that game Pollyanna used to play—the “Glad Game.” For example: Hey kids . . . I hate math in all its many formulas, but I like playing with an abacus. I’m glad the beads are pretty. I hate that the fluorescent light in my utility room is blinking fast enough to give me seizures when I try to do laundry, but I’m glad because if I squint my eyes I can pretend that I’m at a disco. My tub faucet exploded and shoots water out like a fire hydrant. It takes an extra long time to fill up my tub. But I’m glad water spurts out and not lava. When the crows eat all my Japanese plums I’m glad I can shoot straight. I have a lot of scars from various biopsies and operations, but I’m glad. When people ask about them I get to make up stories about pirates, sword fighting, and yeti attacks. It’s fun. When your little brother—our family’s version of Pollyanna—used to run to the window in the morning and declare, “It’s back, Mother! It’s back again. The sun has come back,” I’m glad no one killed him. He was only three. Now when my kids complain about their kids being unreasonable, unpredictable, or un-trainable I’m . . . well . . . glad. Fair is fair. There you have it—the Glad Game. Pollyanna and I did have one thing in common; we both had stubby little noses, which makes me glad, because noses continue to grow as we age. And now I have a normal sized nose with minimal nose hair. Linda (Happy Day) Zern |
| We have four horses—not quite a herd but more than a clump. We feed them. We brush them. We ride them. We move their poop around. We do not treat them like long lost relatives or really tall humans. We treat them like horses. The horses prefer this, which many folks—who have only seen horses acting in the movies, or have heard about horses on Twitter—find confusing. A horse owner I know had a neighbor call to complain about my friend’s horses. It seems they were outside—in the rain—getting wet. It’s hard to know what to say to this kind of silly, stupi . . . er . . . um . . . it’s hard to know what to say. So in the interest of education and knowledge, which is the solution to all modern ills, spills, and trouble, here’s a short tutorial. Horses are outside animals. Keeping a horse in the kitchen is problematic because when they get stuck between the refrigerator and the sink they tend to kick your house down. Horses are wolf food, thus their talent for kicking. Thousands of years of being hunted and eaten by toothy mountain monsters helped the horse evolve a certain “wait and see” attitude. Is that a butterfly or a saber-toothed butterfly? And since I am prey should I run away now or later? Horses feel better when surrounded by other horses. They’re like teenage girls; they always go to the toilet in a clump. Horses like tyranny. Equality does not exist in horse world. They want someone at the top who bites their butts and kicks their faces. That way when the saber-toothed butterflies show up, someone is always the boss and responsible for yelling, “Stampede.” It’s called a pecking order. Alpha horses peck first and so it goes down the line. Tyranny means order, and if you’re a horse order means safety and safety makes you feel better. (Note: Humans who respond to tyranny in this way have essentially become prey animals and should prepare to get pecked or eaten.) Horses should not be ridden in short shorts and halter-tops. That’s just a personal fashion opinion and not really a horse fact. Horses are one thousand pound vegetarians, which requires them to eat grass, grain, and hay ALL DAY LONG. Think about it! When mommy horses want to discipline their rebellious baby horses they chase them and chase them until their babies can’t breathe or until they cry, “Uncle!” and apologize. Baby horses apologize by licking their lips, paying attention, and following. Young horses are not allowed to be idiots. (Horses could teach humans a thing or two about parenting.) Horses are among the most noble and glorious creatures created by the hand of God, and when the Savior of the world returns he’ll be riding a white horse. I read that somewhere. I find that image very appealing. When our son-in-law saw one of our horses rolling around on the ground he thought it was dying. He’d never seen a horse take a dirt bath before. Our son-in-law is from Bountiful, Utah. Enough said. Let’s recap. Horses are not tall humans. Horses are beautiful. Europeans eat horsemeat, thus making them horse eating predators or saber-toothed barbarians. Linda (Tally Ho) Zern |
| The way a family spends its weekend is a real indicator of just how nuts a family is, no matter how not nuts they want people to believe they are. My family is an excellent example of this working theory. We would like you to believe that we are sophisticated intellectual sorts who spend our leisure hours having deep philosophical discussions, frequenting places of stimulating cultural interest, and engaging in recreational activities. Here’s how the weekend really shakes out. THE DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION: After watching The Lord of the Rings—again—we begin our post-movie, round table discussion by answering the following question, “What would you do if you had a ring that made you invisible?” Answers include . . . Phillip (the son-in-law) - “I’d go around doing good for all mankind.” Sherwood (my husband of forever) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms.” Phillip (when he heard Sherwood’s answer) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms with Sherwood.” Me (the voice of reason and sanity) - “I’d sneak up behind Sherwood and Phillip sneaking around women’s locker rooms and bop them on the head.” But then I added, “Invisibility ring! I’m already invisible. What I need is a VISISBILITY ring.” Adam (Please see my essay, Only A Nimrod Would Think that he could Tip Over a Whole Cow) – “I’d sneak up behind cows and tip them over.” Maren (nineteen at the time) – “Men are dogs.” Heather (after twenty minutes of deep thought) – “Pants People?” THE FEATURED CULTURAL ACTIVITY: Before Disney, before Universal, before civilization there was Gatorland. Gatorland is a semi-tropical ode to tacky tourist traps. We love it. Murky pools of fetid water swirl as Florida alligators and the occasional crocodile glide by. Reptiles, roughly the size of sofas, bask in the shimmering heat. We throw marshmallows at them. Visitors can buy hotdogs to toss to the gators, which bring them to a boiling frenzy, but why? For ninety-nine cents and the thrill of watching Adam smuggle a bag of Jet-puffed marshmallows in his pants you can bring these pre-historic handbags to the point of hysteria. (Please note: It is wrong to do this and you should never, ever smuggle foodstuffs in your pants when visiting Gatorland—ever. I’ll tell.) And before anyone complains that we’re probably causing cavities in the alligators with our contraband marshmallows, let me remind you that alligators use their teeth for grabbing you, not chewing you. Alligators eat you—after they death roll you, drown up, stuff you under a submerged log, and tenderize you. Then they snack on you. Believe me, those marshmallows never touched their teeth. Culture is 150 alligators lined up and waiting—breathless—for the next Jet-puffed marshmallow. Our working theory is that they’re sick of eating hot-dogs, biting chunks out of each other, or jumping for dangling chickens. (Note: Yes they do jump, no matter what Sherwood and Philip say. They don’t jump great, but they jump.) RECREATIONAL ACTIVITY: Once a month, we indulge in Sunday dinner with the Chevrier family. Note: Sometimes the Chevrier’s temporarily adopt one or more of our children and raise them, like in the Middle Ages when you sent your kids to other people’s castles to check out the alligators in their moats. So we have dinner. We eat. We talk. We discuss deep philosophical issues like, “Will marshmallows give alligators high blood pressure?” And if we’re really in a wild and crazy mood we take our own temperatures with Carol’s way cool ear thermometer. Aren’t you glad I didn’t say rectal thermometer? There’s crazy and then there’s weird. There you have it, philosophy, culture, and recreation. One of the things I like best about our family is that we can really laugh at ourselves. I can’t think of people I’d rather be invisible with or get busted with while smuggling marshmallows in my pants. Linda (Puffy Pants) Zern |
"Don't try to understand them; and don't try to make them understand you. For they are a breed apart and make no sense." (Hawkeye in Last of the Mohicans) The nice British man at the hotel health club showed me how to push the correct buttons on the treadmill, because I don’t treadmill much or ever. It’s boring and a little too hamster-like. Besides most of the exercise “machines” are set up for giants. I’m more hobbit sized or hamster-esque. Mostly, I enjoy dancing my way to fitness in zumba class or punching my way to a better attitude through combat kickboxing, where I can pretend to kick giant bullies to death. Anyway, there were no zumba classes, so the nice young man was pointing out the various treadmill buttons: hamster wheel power on; cliff incline going up; mountain avalanche going down; trudging speed; time left to trudge; number of cookies worked off; etc. When he pointed to the giant red stop button, I looked at him and asked, “So does that mean the same thing in England as it does in America?” “Sure,” he said. “Stop means stop.” Sort of, except when it doesn’t. Last night our British waitress disappeared for twenty minutes, because she had to “put a cake down” she later explained. The table full of Americans looked at her—confused. “You killed a cake?” someone asked, shocked. “What? No. What?” “In America, when you “put something down” it means you killed it or are going to kill it; like when we’re going to put Fluffy down. Like that.” “What? No. What?” Is it any wonder that the world is a boiling kettle of misunderstanding? It’s so hard to make sense of each other. Honestly. Who kills a cake? You might “polish it off” but that’s about it. And England is a country that speaks American, except when they don’t. My husband asked a cab driver if they do any “mutton bustin’” in England. The cabbie replied, “No, we leave that to the Welsh and we call it sheep shaggin’.” “No, that’s not what I meant. Mutton bustin’ is putting your children on the backs of sheep and letting them get bucked off.” Not the same thing at all. And that’s why conflict and invasion are inevitable, because dialogue is filled with the endless land mines of misunderstanding, confusion, and kooky talk. Sheep shaggin’ indeed! Who let’s their sheep run around with a bad haircut from the seventies? Linda (Shag Cut) Zern |
| The educated young people at my college, when asked about what they want to do when they grow up will inevitably say, “I want to travel and see things.” It’s a fine aspiration. Traveling is good, is fun, is educational . . . is great for the tourism industry. It’s the “seeing” of things that worries me. The same educated young people and, for that matter, old people and the in-the-middle-people talk about “seeing things” like it’s a skill that you don’t have to practice before you arrive at your destination. Once you get to the Tower of London or the Wailing Wall or wherever, your eyes will snap open and your brain will start processing the scene like an android high on gigabytes. “Boy, I’m seeing some stuff now!” The problem with this expectation is that it’s crap. My husband travels—a lot. Once in a while, I drag along with him. Recently, in the Delta Crown Room in Boston (a giant holding pen for nerds set up by the airline so the nerds won’t wander off and fall into ditches) I watched the mating dance of the young and newly enhanced. My husband, the world traveler might as well have fallen in a ditch. “Babe, are you seeing this?” I hissed, nodding toward a beautiful, blond girl sitting at the bar. “She has picked up and moved three times since we’ve been here.” “Urg, slurg . . . harrumph,” he said, tapping away at his smallest machine. “Seeing what?” The other nerds tapped away at their machines of varying size and power usage. “That girl, watch her. When she gets up and moves. She faces the room, bends over and displays her lovely . . . bits in a showy exhibition of availability and then relocates. See those two guys?” Two of the younger nerds had been drawn into her wake and had begun to follow her migration around the room. “Seriously, check it out.” The girl stood, bent, displayed, and then moved to a new nesting area. I finally had my husband’s attention. His eyes bugged out of his head. He glanced at me and said, “Good grief, how do you see these things?” “Practice, lots and lots of practice. That and I don’t know how to text message.” The Tower of London was historical and interesting, but the trip from Reading, England on the train was where the real sight seeing happened. It was the young girl crammed into the stairwell of the train with her six-year old as she went into hard labor. Auburn haired and pink cheeked she looked like one of my daughters. Her little boy pretended to be Spider Man, shooting his webs at my husband, while his mother’s belly convulsed with a contraction every two or three minutes. I tried smiling at her, but she warned me off with a death glare. No wedding ring. No one to help her. Hurting and alone on a crammed train, heading for London and sitting on a suitcase, she began to shake and cry. Her little boy reached out to her swollen body, touching her belly gently, shyly. “You won’t forget me then, while I’m gone,” she said. I don’t know if he heard her. The train’s roar swallowed conversation. Everyone else tapped away at their machines—sending and receiving, while the drama played out at their feet. That’s the problem with real life drama verses this notion of “sight seeing.” Drama frowns and cries and does unpredictable, uncomfortable things—unlike sights, one travels thousands of miles to see, where all the tears have dried and the bodies are long buried. Looking is not the same thing as seeing. My best travel advice is to practice “seeing stuff” right where you are. Turn off the machines. Open your eyes. Because the sights are happening, probably right at your feet. Linda (Eyes Like Headlights) Zern |
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