I'm sitting on a rocking chair, next to the big Russian bear on the floor in the corner. (Don't worry, he looks well-fed.) Bruce & Helen are IBMing & studying for boards, respectively. We had a lovely supper last night after I arrived from Saratoga Springs. (Or Sartog, as my friend Cathy, the Seattlite, ex-New Yorker puts it.) (Actually, I'm not sure people actually become EX New Yorkers.) Visited. Walked to a coffee shop in a little rain.
This morning we had crepes & steel cut oatmeal. Delish.
Okay, so I want this to be more than a food report, so I will talk about trucks. I had a pet truck for a while last Thursday. Shiny & swift & unswervable, the kind of truck you can pass without worrying that it's going to creep into--or even toward--your lane. We leapfrogged a little. Sometimes I would lead the truck & sometimes I would let it forge on ahead, as long as it stayed within sight. Then there was traffic congestion & I was afraid I was going to lose my little truck (little is a term of endearment, rather than a descriptor) but I did not. With a bit of judicious passing, I was able to reconnect & we traveled happily together for some miles.
Yet, I know the way of pet trucks. One must not hold too tightly. One must allow them to find their own paths, or, better yet, their own highways. (Trucks are hell on paths.) I don't remember when it actually split off from my route, but I remember the little catch in my throat as it signaled--it always signaled!--& smoothly merged onto another road. Goodbye, my friend, I murmured. Safe travels. & then it was gone.
All that day I drove alone. Oh, there were other cars & trucks on the highway, but none of them were with me, if you know what I mean. It's not just any truck that can be a pet truck. Perhaps I will have another on this trip, perhaps not. But at least I have the memories....
Bruce & Helen & I are going to do our morning tasks & then go look around Syracuse a little. Helen works at the hospital here (she's an epileptologist). They've got a lovely apartment, filled with light. Nice hardwood floors. A couple sometimes barky chi-hooah-hooahs (that's how they're pronouncing it for fun) downstairs. Later today or tomorrow I'm going to go see Nick.
94. The next time you're driving, keep your eyes open for a pet truck. Hang with it for a while. Even name it if you want. Then, let it go on its way.