I met my friend Harold for a late lunch yesterday and we went to Jackson, the southern equivalent of Placerville. It's a pretty drive through rolling hills in the heart of gold country and the tiny hamlet of Dry Town. Before the new road went in the winding, two-lane road crept through Amador City and Sutter Creek, slow going. The now four-lane highway bypasses those towns and shortens the driving time. Few of us up here will leave home for just one thing, so we made a stop before lunch for a piece of hardware Harold needed and at a grocery store afterward. It turns out that Harold is a shopper, zipping around in a motorized grocery cart like a NASCAR driver.
I feel much like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight on those rare
occasions when I get gussied up and wear a dress, a couple of times a
year, I'd say. On coming home, my white horses turn back into mice, the
truck is a pumpkin, and I'm back in baggy bibbies. The ball is over.
It was a good day.