The years keep on turning, and in commemoration, Syme and I hopped in his Escort and drove down highway 89 toward the phenomenon called Page, Arizona the day before yesterday.
We did this trip last year on a whim and enjoyed the hell out of the bizzare and picturesque drive, so we did it again. This time, it was colder, for the most part, earlier, and of course, less spontaneous. The places we visited took on a more deliberate air, and made us stop and take inventory of the events and souls that made up the participants in the adventure. In some ways, we were bewildered at how little had changed or progressed in the past year, and in others, we knew that something had happened, but it was hard to put a finger on exactly what.
The dam was still there, and so was the steel bridge spanning the redrock canyon between the western and eastern table lands above the Coloradee. Page still had a parade of churches dedicated to God and pandering to man and a whole grundle of differently flavored breads at the Safeway, ready for purchase and consumption.
What was the difference between the churches, Safeway, and really, me?
Not a whole lot.