jumpingfish

Central Illinois abstract

Central Illinois concrete

“Smell them air,” I said as we crossed into Michigan.

Ben was behind the wheel. Trudy was in the backseat. I was in front snapping pictures of the lowering sun and the shadow of our car reaching out on the green growing beside the road as we raced that final stretch north. North to the lake. 

“Will you be here for dinner?” my brother texted. “What is your ETA.”

“Definitely not there by dinner,” I said.

“But what’s your ETA?”

“We’re hoping to make sunset, but we’ll probably miss it. Expect us dusk-ish.”

At 0-dusk-30, Ben turned the car onto that two-rut drive that we’ve driven down so many times.

“That’s our yellow gate,” he said. A gate that he and his cousins painted a few years ago as the mosquitos waged a determined campaign agains them.

We drove down that drive thru the forest. Drove toward the lake. Arrived to the hooting and hollering of those who were already there. We hooted together. We hugged. And we walked down to the lake, which the iPhone captured in good enough fashion that I thought I might share it with you.

They say we live in a simulation. Or that we could. Or might. To be honest, I don’t know what the line of reasoning is, and I don’t particularly care. I’ve got things to do.

But you’ve got to admit, that if you were in a simulation and if you were British, this might be a good time to restart the simulation from the checkpoint just before that Brexit vote.

What a bunch of fools, he says. The would never happen here, he says, glancing around nervously.

Oh the poor souls on the International Olympic Committee… Now that Oslo has snubbed them come to their senses, the only remaining bidders for the 2022 winter games are Kazakhstan and China. (What does that say? Discuss.)

 “Senior politicians in Norway appear not to have been properly briefed on the process and were left to take their decisions on the basis of half-truths and factual inaccuracies,” the IOC executive director clucked to the press.

How about this for a truth: The IOC demanded that (among a long list of other perks) that they (the committee — that bastion of full-truth and accuracy) be granted a meeting with the king and that drinks at the royal reception be paid by the palace (or by the local organizing committee, but certainly not by the IOC who are there, after all, to schmooze and booze and … well do those things that global elites are so want to do).

So then Oslo pulls out of the running. And the IOC executive director thinks that the Norwegian politicians have not been properly briefed. 

What a perfect example of our globe-trotting, elite-centric world. Olympexit. Good riddance. 

From the back of the office, it could have been hard to find your way out. There were halls that went off in one direction or another. There were waiting areas where you had to turn even though it wasn’t obvious. But there were also signs. At each step where you found yourself asking “where am I supposed to go?”, there were signs with arrows pointing to Checkout. So I followed the signs.

“Sir, window 2 is available for checking out,” a woman said as soon as I wandered in. (I must have had that look on my face.) 

The woman there was busy. She was fishing thru a paper bag, pulling out an envelope. And she had evidently just pulled out a “bouquet” of … well the company’s name says it all: an edible arrangement. No flower bouquet, this. Instead someone had sent her an arrangement of … edibles.

There were slices of pineapple on sticks. And pieces of canteloupe on sticks. And kiwi slices. And strawberries. And watermelon balls. And there were morsels covered in dark chocolate. And others covered in white-striped chocolate. It was a huge arrangement …and colorful …and…

“Wow,” I said.

“Really. That’s what I say,” she said, smiling from ear to ear.

“There’s enough here for…,” and I glanced at her colleague at window 1, “…for the whole office!”

They laughed. “It’s true,” she said.

“Someone must like you.”

“It’s from my boyfriend,” she said.

“Oh…,” I said. “Now that’s some kind of boyfriend.”

“He is,” she said. “It’s about time.”