As
my Perpetual Employee of the Month, Fluffy is responsible for
entertaining me, as well as for feeding me and clothing me and doing
everything else you would expect from the conscientious employee he
is. So when we were in Williamsburg, Virginia, last month, I was not
a bit surprised when he packed me up one sunny morning and announced
we were heading out for a day trip to the historic village of
Yorktown.
We
had been to Williamburg and Jamestown, but had never been to Yorktown
(the three cities are known as the Historic Triangle because of all
the important historical stuff that happened there). You can hardly
blame us. We have only lived in Virginia since 1987. We just hadn’t
gotten around to it yet.
But
Fluffy had done enough research to see pictures of it, and to know
that it was a scenic drive. That was good enough for him.
He
packed my wheelchair in the backseat and I threw my trusty purple
camera around my neck, and off we went. Sure enough, the scenic
drive was — well, scenic. We started finding pictures to take
around every corner. Sometimes we didn’t even have to turn a
corner to find a picture — that’s how photogenic it all
was.
When you see a sign that says you’re on a parkway that’s
maintained by the Department of the Interior, you know you’re
in for some scenic stuff. We were ready for bison, even if only
viewed on Department of Interior signage.
Everywhere we drove, the trees provided shade that was cool and inviting.
The
road was so peaceful that we wanted to enjoy the view. Part of it
had such heavy undergrowth that it looked like the forest primeval,
but we couldn’t stop to take pictures of it because there were
people behind us that wanted to get
past us now. We were driving the
speed limit, but that was not fast enough. If we had been driving
twice as fast as we were driving, it would not have been fast enough.
We saw many split-rail fences like this one lining the roads. If George
Washington ever built a fence, this is the kind of fence he would
have built.
Eventually
we got to the village of Yorktown. To my surprise, Fluffy didn’t
even go to the visitors’ center. As it turned out, this was a
good move on his part, because tickets cost $16.75 per person, and
there’s no way we could have afforded it. Not this year!
Maybe we’ll go back next year, when I’m out of debt and
we are solvent.
This is the sort of thing I expected to see on our trip. No, sirree.
After stopping to take this lone picture, Fluffy drove right to the
waterfront. He knew what he wanted to see.
The waterfront, Fluffy’s destination, was scenic, and it was free.
When
we got to the waterfront, Fluffy got me situated in a breezy spot in
my wheelchair. Once he made sure I was comfortable and happy, he
went off to take pictures and left me to take pictures of my own. We
each had a fabulous hour doing what we loved.
If we’d shelled out the money to go to the visitors’ center,
we probably would have known the significance of these two ships.
All I can tell is that by the rigging they appear to be pretty old.
Here’s George Washington with his hand out. Apparently he wants what the other guy has behind his
back. It sure would have helped if I had read the plaque to see who
the other guy was and what was going on. Before you think that Mr.
Washington had terminal acne, the other guy’s face was just as
bad. Apparently this was some artistic technique on the part of the
sculptor.
There were all sorts of fascinating shops and restaurants in the vicinity. Sigh. Maybe next year.
There was a brightly-colored trolley that went from the waterfront to the historic area. You could just
hop on and hop off as you wished. I did not try hopping on. Hopping
is just a wee bit problematical in a wheelchair.
After
we left the waterfront, we went through the town and then got on the
parkway again. We could have taken the highway back home. In fact,
we crossed right under it. But why take the highway when we could
take the scenic byway instead? Photographs awaited us, and my trusty
purple camera was in my hands.
Fortunately, we did not have to pay the $16.75 per person to take a picture of the Yorktown village sign.
We also did not have to pay $16.75 per person to take a picture of the imposing Yorktown courthouse, so
that’s what Fluffy did.
Once we were back on the parkway, we were ready for moose or bear or
anything. Unfortunately, all the paid moose and bear are assigned to
Yellowstone and other national parks that are cooler. They would
swelter to death in Virginia. We have to be content with mangy deer,
and we didn’t even see any of those.
When you’re on a parkway sponsored by the Department of the
Interior, you don’t just get one scenic overhead bridge —
you get two at a time.
What I want to know is this: Do all husbands do the motormouth when they
are walking? I suspect they do. In fact, I suspect that if the
sculptor that did the statue of George Washington and his nameless
antagonist at the Yorktown harbor would have been realistic, he
wouldn’t have given them acne. He would have had them both
doing the motormouth at each other.
We
had a glorious time driving along. The only problem was, even though
we always went the speed limit, we kept collecting a parade of cars
behind us that wanted to go twice as fast as we were going, and who
were more than a little unhappy that we were poking along so slowly.
I
cannot blame these people. They were probably natives of the area
who were just trying to get somewhere. They had probably seen the
magnificent scenery hundreds of times, and paid little attention to
it. They just wanted to get where they were going. That being the
case, I cannot understand why they did not just take the highway.
Every
time that Fluffy was able to find a pull-out in the road, he pulled
off and let the parade of cars behind us pass us, and they zoomed by.
I hope they were able to refrain from giving us one-finger waves
when they did so. (We didn’t look to see.) No doubt they
thought we were stupid old people, and that we should have stayed
home slurping our oatmeal.
I
know what they were thinking because Fluffy and I used to be among
the young people zooming by. We could not understand why the stupid
old people only went the speed limit when they could easily have been
going faster than that and reaching their destinations hours earlier
than they were going to get there.
I
can tell you that none of the people who passed us had purple cameras
around their necks, and none of them were stopping to take pictures
of the double bridges or the split-rail fences. We even turned
around to get a shot of a great blue heron that was sitting on a post
in the water, but he flew away before we could get the shot. I’m
betting the speeders never even saw that magnificent bird.
When
we are young, we think the object is to hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
and hurry some more. It is only when we get older that we realize we
are all too quickly going to reach that final destination. It is
then that we stop to look around and see the things that God has put
here for us to enjoy.
Have
we reached our quota of sunsets? Have we enjoyed enough bends in
enough rivers? Have we seen enough waterfalls or listened to enough
thunderstorms? Have we eaten enough warm chocolate chip cookies?
Have we spent enough time with the people we love the most?
These
are questions that do not bother us when we are young. When we are
young, we think there will always be time. When we are older, we
realize that clocks run down and that time is running short. It is
only then that we want to see everything we can. We do not want to
miss the beautiful things that God and nature — and even the
hand of man — have provided us.
So
when Fluffy packs me in the car for an adventure, we savor every
minute of it, and to heck with the people who are lined up behind us
on the road. If you happen to find yourself behind two geezers in a
gold Mercury Sable, and there is not a pull-out so we can let you
pass, I’m afraid you’ll just have to slow down and enjoy
the ride.
Kathryn H. Kidd has been writing fiction, nonfiction, and "anything for money" longer than
most of her readers have even been alive. She has something to say on every topic, and the
possibility that her opinions may be dead wrong has never stopped her from expressing them at
every opportunity.
A native of New Orleans, Kathy grew up in Mandeville, Louisiana. She attended Brigham
Young University as a generic Protestant, having left the Episcopal Church when she was eight
because that church didn't believe what she did. She joined The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints as a BYU junior, finally overcoming her natural stubbornness because she
wanted a patriarchal blessing and couldn't get one unless she was a member of the Church. She
was baptized on a Saturday and received her patriarchal blessing two days later.
She married Clark L. Kidd, who appears in her columns as "Fluffy," more than thirty-five
years ago. They are the authors of numerous LDS-related books, the most popular of which is A
Convert's Guide to Mormon Life.
A former managing editor for Meridian Magazine, Kathy moderated a weekly column ("Circle of Sisters") for Meridian until she was derailed by illness in December of 2012. However, her biggest claim to fame is that she co-authored
Lovelock with Orson Scott Card. Lovelock has been translated into Spanish and Polish, which
would be a little more gratifying than it actually is if Kathy had been referred to by her real name
and not "Kathryn Kerr" on the cover of the Polish version.
Kathy has her own website, www.planetkathy.com, where she hopes to get back to writing a weekday blog once she recovers from being dysfunctional. Her entries recount her adventures and misadventures with Fluffy, who heroically
allows himself to be used as fodder for her columns at every possible opportunity.
Kathy spent seven years as a teacher of the Young Women in her ward, until she was recently released. She has not yet gotten used to interacting with the adults, and suspects it may take another seven years. A long-time home teacher with her husband, Clark, they have home taught the same family since 1988. The two of them have been temple workers since 1995, serving in the Washington D.C. Temple.