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Throughout my young life, my father drove Buicks. The first one I remember, just vaguely, was black with red seats. It was huge, wide and tall, to my small self and I remember having the back seat all to myself. My brother was in the front seat—held by my mother or in a tiny “car seat” with its own steering wheel. Amazing that all my siblings who sat in that tiny seat grew to adulthood. I could sit or lie or play with toys in the big back seat. Unfortunately, I have always been one to get very motion sick. A short ride to church or school, got me dizzy. A 20 minute ride to grandma’s house ruined half a day, and the ride to the Jersey shore would slay me. My father stopped on the shoulder of the road, I got out and threw up everything in my stomach. Even when I didn’t eat or took the dreaded dramamine, which I may have been allergic to, I was wretched.
But this is about driving cars, not riding in them. Only once and in my adult life have I ever felt sick driving and that was in a big, empty school van.
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The wedding and the week at the lake house were wonderful but not without snags and challenges—challenges that have continued into the new week.
[Big aside. I finished about half of this post and was editing the photo layout when I lost the entire post. Zap! Pooff! Every bit of it gone. And you know, when that happens I am sure that what I wrote before was probably the most brilliant, thought provoking, sweet post I’d ever written. So, in the spirit of reconstruction, I’m doing it all again! How did I start???]
Lake house.
