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Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Scribble and Scrambles - Warty Monograms and Motorcycle Cells

I left the office early Friday.

The beauty of flexible scheduling.

I drove around town with my windows down and the wind whipping my hair in my eyes. This is probably illegal, or at least a bad idea, but after seeing what I saw Thursday, I'm not too worried.

Thursday, I spied a man on a motorcycle. He was easy to see since he pulled out in front of me.

Guess what he was busy doing? Yep. Talking on a cellphone - did I mention he was riding as in driving a motorcycle - one of those things with two wheels and no protective aluminum or fiberglass shell?

While still on the phone, after pulling out in front of me, he turned into a grocery store parking lot.

This was impressive.

Maybe he's got one of those new "look, Ma! No hands!" motorcycles. He didn't use his turn signal. I suppose he didn't want to upset his equilibrium.

While I drove Friday with the whipping frenzy of my hair and bits of grit from the street exfoliating my face, I noticed something else that bugged me.

Bugs me - in present tense -- almost every time I drive past.

Someone built a huge luxury mansion on the top of one of our town's many hills. They installed gates over the driveway and graveled the banks on either side of the gates. A worker, a landscape artist no doubt, painstakingly smoothed the pinkish gravel into a flat sea of weed-free yard and then crafted a perfect six foot letter.

A gravel monogram.

But this was over a year ago, and shortly after this artistic and tasteful yard-styling, someone or something knocked some of the white gravel outside of it's little barrier and the huge letter now has a blurry growth.

There is a wart on the monogram. A hairy wart. And no one has fixed it.

Do you suppose I could be arrested for trespassing if I sneak over some night and repair it?

Hey, maybe they are trying to capture an anal-retentive Sasquatch. I hadn't thought of that.