I remember frustrations of the past when I encounter them in the present.
I composed a post for this blog, tried to publish it, and it disappeared into thin air.
It was about family road trips and road trips with friends and fellow-members of the local queer choir (complete with home-made wine, with which Carla the Soprano -- as I thought of her -- baptised me while trying to pour from one narrow-necked bottle into another, over my lap).
Is there ever a trip without a mishap?
But somehow the wrong turns, flat tires, messes and disagreements on a trip mellow out in memory, and become funny stories.
I can hear it now. "Hmm-hmm." Someone is humming tunelessly, creating a weird medley with the 1970s pop song on the car radio. It's my teenage sister Laurie (as I'll call her), pressed beside me in the back seat of the rented British car. My other sister, Carey (so to speak - a precocious 13-year-old) is on my other side. Our parents are smoking in the front seat.
I hope we stop at the site of some gruesome historic event. I need the distraction.
"HMM - MMM - HMMM." Laurie's volume increases. She's dangerous when she's bored.
Within moments, there is a scream-fest in the small, enclosed space. Two pairs of hands are scrabbling at each other over and around me. Our parents are telling me to get my sisters to settle down -- I'm the oldest & the designated peacemaker.
We swerve onto a shoulder of the road. "I can't drive! The noise is getting in front of my eyeballs!" That's dad.
He threatens to keep us parked there until order is restored.
A tense, eerie silence fills the car. We're on the move again.
Someone chews gum, loudly, with her mouth open.
And so it goes, punctuated by allegedly haunted inns and sites of massacres. It seems that human nature hasn't changed much over the centuries.
As they say, the journey is more important than the destination. I wouldn't have missed it.