The Road Home

Like it or not, a trip to town yesterday was mandatory.  Oh well, nothing for it but to do it.  For whatever reason, possibly the prediction of days of rain, there was more traffic than usual on the road and they were in a hurry.  I am perfectly willing to pull over to let people go past, but there are few places on our little two-lane roads to do so.  It's not like I'm going little-old-lady speed, either (the Kids' dad used to call me Juan Fangio).

The shops in town were more packed with people than I've seen before.  It was an interesting experience.  A woman even older than I started a lengthy conversation about her small chihuahua dog, a cute little dog wearing a camo hoodie that said "I reserve the right to bear arms."  She explained that the dog was registered as a PTSD service dog and went with her everywhere.  The clerk behind the counter gave me a lecture, or sermon, on the coming end of days.  As I said, interesting.

Why is it that the road going home seems so much shorter than the trip going?  Maybe because I didn't want to leave in the first place.  With less traffic, I had time to really appreciate the scenery.  Many of the now bright green hillsides were blanketed with daffodils and dotted here and there with flowering pink or white fruit trees.  Being from an age when there were soda fountains in every drugstore (just the one in our little town) where ice cream floats were made to order by hand, the trees reminded me of that time.  My mother always ordered a "black cow," a soda made with chocolate ice cream and root beer.  I asked for a soda made with strawberry ice cream and crushed pineapple syrup, and my dad wanted straight strawberry.  The trees brought back memories of the pink and white froth.  As an added fillip, the yellow acacia trees are just now coming into bloom and here and there are salmon-colored flowering quince.  This is such a beautiful time of year.

The sky was just starting to spit rain when I got home, but it was chill enough to put Stove to work.  I settled in to watch "Westward The Women," (1951, Robert Taylor, Denise Darcel, Hope Emerson), one of my favorite westerns of all time.  Mother had worked as a waitress in the coffee shop at Santa Anita racetrack, and would tell of the many movie stars who would come to her station.  Barbara Stanwick was then married to Robert Taylor.  She would wear no makeup, but Taylor would.  In "Westward The Women," he was as rugged as they come.  It is, in my opinion, one of his best films.

Gosh, I was glad to get home.