August 3, 2012 § 4 Comments
We make the trip north every year to visit family–and the past. Sometimes we fly. Sometimes we point the car north and blaze up the interstates. This year Ray said, “Let’s take our time.”
We climbed into the car, and set out for my sister’s place in Stockbridge, the long way.
The long way wound through back-road America, past its whitewashed churches, its roadside wild flowers, its forlorn crosses standing in tall grass, its hounds lying in dusty driveways, its parking lot dinosaurs and giant cut-out guitars.
December 30, 2011 § 6 Comments
Packed in our carry-on bag is a tile grinder and a microscope.
What devices of mass destruction might they resemble when viewed on the ghostly black-and-white TSA screen?
We take off shoes, empty pockets. We enter the new futuristic scanning tube one at a time and stand, arms raised. It takes a good twenty minutes to move fifty feet, but our carry-on luggage makes it through; we must be entering the national transportation system at one of its soft spots–or else the screener is an out-of-work biologist who knows a microscope when he sees one.
Either way, we’re in.