When I was growing up I was famous, or should I say infamous, for getting car sick.
While the adults tended to express sympathy, cousins and siblings tended to whine, "Does she have to go? You know she's going to puke!"
Going to Gramma's was always interesting. She lived off of a winding logging road in Idaho and nobody had to lay bets whether or not I'd get sick.
It was a given.
Traveling, in a word, was miserable.
I'd walk in the door when reaching our destination and quickly spit out a "Hi, nice to see ya" before racing for the nearest bed or bucket.
I was driving on South First Street the other day. This would be the street with all the cones covering up some kind of holes.
The street's littered with 'em!
The other day, as I was winding my way around those darn cones, I thought to myself, "Bring back memories, Lynda Jo?"
While I didn't get sick, it sure brought back some unpleasant memories about the car rides to Gramma's.
I've never seen cones placed like that. I have no idea why they're there.
More worrisome, I don't know if I'm supposed to drive to the right or to the left of 'em.
I have the worst depth perception in the world, which is why I can't judge which way to go (that, and not knowing what Johnny Law would have me do).
But hey, at least I don't turn green, pull over and, well, you know.