Lessons from the horse opera
Call me easily distracted. Put it down to flights of fancy. After reading a short article in the daily newspaper, I want to visit a museum. Several museums. The only defining point is that they must be in Newfoundland. To any avid readers, and you know who you are, it’s time to head back. This time around, we’ll offload the camping gear (which we won’t use) and the extra space will be donated to the dog, or the boy, or both. Just a thought, given that we’re now down to less than three months before vacation.
Chatting with my sister, who was sequestered in an airport waiting room in Winnipeg. She didn’t seem to be too offput by the experience. On my end, I was working through the moral lessons of back to back episodes of Rawhide. Did I watch that show the first time around? Not sure. There wasn’t much action, and Clint was still a relative unknown. His trail boss had a much better sense of keeping the audience enthralled. Was it the diction? Nary a syllable lost in translation. No drawl. Just stage presence brought on by stage experience (and not stage coach, as one who watched horse opera might have supposed). The afternoon continued with Clint and a Magnum (not of champagne, as a oenophile might have supposed).
Back to summertime. Last time around, we had bug free weather. Would the minister responsible for tourist welfare be willing to assure such a thing, second time around? How about a minimum of fog and rain?
