Site Meter Peculiar Susceptibility: I DO care about the polar ice caps, part 1

Saturday, June 30, 2007

I DO care about the polar ice caps, part 1

I love roadtrips.

I think the strangest complement, but one by which I was completely flattered, was (about six years ago, now) when Aaron told me that I look beatific. At the time, I was certainly feeling very very happy, but it was not what I would have categorized as beatific.

No, I didn't feel beatific then, but I have.

The first time I remember feeling beatitude was when I was twelve. My family took a trip to the Cape. We arrived, almost having certainly driving what would become my first car (a great little '88 VW golf, standard, with one of those crank open skylights). My father used to press down the wind guard on the roof when it was open; the sound drove my mother nuts.

(A digression: we had a complicated arrangement of seat assignments, all relating to what ones access to music choice would be. For instance, the middle back seat was the "veto seat," seems fair enough, right? The two other back seats would swap suggestion duties. The front passenger didn't have much of a choice—unless dad was sitting there and a Yankees game was on the radio. The driver got to present a catalogue of choices—unless it was very late, in which case she or he had totalitarian power over the music selection.)

So. We arrived on the Cape. We unpacked the car. It was early evening. I was standing on the beach. A storm rolled in. It was raining, hard—that kind of hard that stings your skin when it hits. I stood in the rain. I did cartwheels in the rain. I laid myself down on the wet sand and let the rain hit me, whincing occasionally. That was the first time I felt it.

I felt it on the drive, through an ice storm, to Montréal on December 26, 2005.

I felt it over and over in Donegal last year (almost exactly a year ago).
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I felt it on the trip to Farm Sanctuary this weekend.
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[Much more on this soon...]

And I felt it, driving on my own from Farm Sanctuary on a spontaneous trip to Niagra Falls.
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[Leg up, windows down, singing, and allowing my hair to become a bird's nest of knots.]
[Much more on this soon, too...]

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