Up a dirt road, not near enough to the swimming creek, good climbing apple trees, and skating pond, but far too close to the manure piles, my family lived our rural lives in a place many still regard as "out of touch". My Texan uncle and Detroit aunt soon put a stop to that, and often. They spoiled us with Christmas gifts we'd only dreamed of in Eaton catalogues; news from places we'd never heard of. It was always a bigger world when my Godparents came roaring up our dead end road in their big shiny Chrysler. In the aftermath of their visits we'd readjust our lives and try to make sense of the wider exotic disturbing world we were missing. One reminder were the copies of tabloid papers my aunt often left behind. The lurid details of violence and mayhem, and sensational news of shredded lives, served merely as entertainment for when our mundane lives felt too small. My parents never did lock their doors.
Decades later, and those lives having passed, memories carry on. I'm fortunate enough to be able to enjoy 2 annual weeks "out of touch" and "away from it all", tho' that doesn't guarantee my safety. Bad stuff happens everywhere. But the other 50 weeks a year I spend in the midst of society, both good and bad, navigating without fear but with caution and common sense; hoping and expecting to never make the tabloids.
Decades later, and those lives having passed, memories carry on. I'm fortunate enough to be able to enjoy 2 annual weeks "out of touch" and "away from it all", tho' that doesn't guarantee my safety. Bad stuff happens everywhere. But the other 50 weeks a year I spend in the midst of society, both good and bad, navigating without fear but with caution and common sense; hoping and expecting to never make the tabloids.
