On my morning walk Cooper and I strolled by the gloomy shoreline and it reminded me of that time my mom and sister and I were driving in our humungous red station wagon (that we called Red Baby) over the Sepulveda Pass at night and the fog was so unbelievably thick that we couldn’t see more than a foot in front of us. I was absolutely convinced that we were going to go flying off into space and hurl into the side of the mountain—a fate even a tank like Red Baby could never withstand.
My strategy was to beg and plead with my mother to just stop in the middle of the freeway and my mother’s strategy was to keep the light beams on low, not bright “like all the other morons”— she said this in that way of hers that was the closest thing to a teachable moment. I remember my sister and me sobbing at one point as if we were headed for certain death. EVERY. TIME. I’m unfortunate enough to be driving in thick fog I think of that time with all of us in Red baby, screaming in holy terror for our lives.
I swear to god I don’t know how we made it.
Yours In Far Vision,