We measure distance more frequently in units of time than in units of length. Why? What does that say about our culture?
With the advent of Rivian electric pickup trucks, not to mention Tesla’s plans and Ford’s all-electric F-150, my appetite for a new vehicle has finally come. But it’s better for the environment for me to run the Mazda into the ground first. So hold up, lil’ dogie.
Brandon took me to Disney World Hollywood Studios this evening as a token of appreciation. The highlights for me were:
- the Tower of Terror, which as a virtual brush with death was probably good for my anxious heart
- Rock n Roll Coaster, a fast-start roller coaster that I was terrified of at the beginning but loved after it began, as usual.
- a beautiful voice message from Carla and the kids telling me they love me.
- an often goofy but somehow touching The Great Movie Ride. It may have been the glimpse of George Bailey being embraced by his children during a rapid-fire montage at the end of the ride.
Walking is one of my favorite activities. That means this afternoon made my happy: I not only got to walk the sheep pastures with God and sing snippets of Delirious? numbers to Him, but also got to walk from Sunset Park to Pattee Library to Rec Hall and back—about one mile each way—with Sullivan and Éa, who enjoyed seeing the sights and climbing things as much as I enjoyed watching them enjoy them.
On our Saturday morning errands, feeling proudly countercultural, I suggested the kids walk ahead of me to Barnes & Noble while I returned spoons Carla had bought from Ross Dress for Less. Sullivan’s eyes widened with excitement at the prospect. So they did it, following the sidewalk as much as they could, as instructed.
In my perfect world, there would be sidewalks connecting Ross to Barnes & Noble, and it would not be extraordinary for a six-year-old to walk to a building three hundred feet away from his dad.
(The photos is from our walk back to the car together.)
Well, what do you know? We just contributed to the happiness, or at least the punctuality, of fellow travelers from Quebec to Baxter State Park. And the border guards on the logging roads near Saint-Just-de-Bretenières got their wish to be a little lonelier:
Sorry! I got into my whistling.
— Scott, as we swerve off and back onto the road