The horrific events in France resonated with our family.
My daughter's former college roommate married a Frenchman and has lived in Paris these past twenty years.
Our hearts go out to all the families in France.
In a simpler time:
As a little girl, I used to make cakes in our 1950 green Ford.
It was summertime and we would be on our way across country from Virginia to visit my grandparents in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was a long trip in that pre-electronic era. There was no movie playing on the monitor in the headrest in front of me (and in fact, no headrest), there was no Leap Pad to distract me from obsessively kicking the back of my mother’s seat, or Game Boy to teach me that electronic friends were better than the flesh-and-blood variety.
On the plus side, there were no pesky booster seats or seat belts to hamper free range of that big back seat. We’d sail along, state after state, the hot summer air from the open windows pummeling us, and my sister reading or doing some other boring big-sister thing next to me.
I’d make cakes.
I’d sit there with my mixing bowl (a shoebox) and assemble the best cakes ever. The empty ashtray held flour, the crank to roll down the window emitted chocolate if I pressed the center circle, the push button to release the triangular vent window squirted whipped cream. If I was a little vague on the ingredients necessary, I found any number of objects there in the back seat to provide them.
At some point, my mother would pass back sandwiches or deviled eggs wrapped in twists of waxed paper. I was ready with dessert, if everyone wasn’t too full.
It’s too bad that today’s kids are so insulated from boredom that they rarely experience the cozy monotony of letting their minds wander while they stare at their parents’ heads and listen to the muffled murmur of grown-up conversation.