We’ve been on a family road trip for about a week, driving south to Lake Shasta, California, where we hung out in a house on a lake for three days with the San Francisco cousins, then after a night in Medford, Oregon, which included a fascinating bout of food poisoning for yours truly, we’ve arrived in Portland, Oregon, where the only available room we could find has been a suite at the fancy Governor Hotel, so we’ve been livin’ large for the past twelve hours, as evidenced not only by the quality of the digs in which we find ourselves, but also by the kid’s dinner last evening, which featured a six ounce filet mignon priced for the Robber Barons who this place was apparently built for.
But hell, we’re on vacation, so why not?
August arrives tomorrow, and with it, increased nervousness about the future—just a month to go until school starts and so on, but for now, it’s still all fun and games. One wonders whether what’s in store will be manageable given the last six months of relative calm, but one thing is certain: life will go on in its own inevitable ways and whatever happens will have happened when it’s all over and done with.
In other words, we’re on vacation, so why not?
It’s odd how much time a person can spend fretting over tomorrow while simultaneously regretting yesterday; neither of those times actually exist, (they’re both in our heads), and yet they can cause terrors that seem as real as those induced by the 18-wheelers that roared alongside me in the dark as we careened down Interstate 5 earlier this week.
Having driven way more miles in the last five days than I have in the previous 12 months, I’ve had my share of frightening moments behind the wheel, but hell, we’re on vacation, so why not?