Front Porch Reflections
The Scenic Route
Ken and I don’t think alike.
Not even close.
We’ll be talking about something perfectly ordinary when . . .
Screech!
I’m on the offramp driving ninety miles an hour, headed . . . somewhere.
Meanwhile, poor Ken—his hands firmly on the dashboard—is still trying to figure out why we left the freeway in the first place.
Eventually, he catches up.
Just about the time he loosens his grip . . .
Screech!
Into a ditch. Four-wheeling up the other side.
He tells me this is why he drinks—nothing stronger than Mountain Dew—unless that Swig raspberry mango concoction counts as something stronger.
It took time, but he has learned not to try to follow my mental GPS. After all, somewhere in the middle of our grocery list, I may sidetrack into a story about my fourth-grade math teacher, Martin’s favorite pocketknife, or the biological difference between coniferous and deciduous trees.
He shakes his head like he understands. I, however, believe he’s shaking his head to make sure he hasn’t been tossed out the window in a construction zone. He has absolutely no idea how we got here. And if he were honest, he’d admit he doesn’t have much confidence that we’ll ever make it back.
His brain white-knuckles until he is faint and in need of a good dose of pure oxygen.
Poor man.
Meanwhile, I’m wandering through an art museum admiring the grout between the floor tiles, wondering who washes the windows, explaining why the aquarium is such a wonderful place to visit, and how precious newborn baby giraffes are.
He’s still standing in front of the first painting while I’ve already toured three galleries, stopped by the aquarium, and somehow ended up at the giraffe exhibit at the zoo.
And then, . . .
Screech!
That reminds me . . .
— Charlene