We took our kids to the U. P. State Fair today. That's right--corn dogs, elephant ears, lemonade, Italian sausage, and corn on the cob. Oh, and there were rides and barns full of critters, too, but food always seems to define trips I take for some reason.
It has been some time since we've all gone together to the fair. My daughter has gone with other people. I think my wife and son and daughter have gone together, as well. It used to be an annual tradition when my sister, Sally, was alive. I can't tell you how much money I've lost playing those stupid games on the midway.
One of the first things we did when we got to the fairgrounds was hit the rides. My wife and I have reached the age where simply looking at the Ferris wheel brings on a bout of vertigo. So, we merely watched as our daughter and son were strapped into the Hang Glider. About a minute after the ride started, our son opened his mouth and let fly a red shower of vomit. It wasn't pretty. He came off the ride red-faced and covered in puke.
In today's poem, Billy Collins meditates on the speed of life . . .
Velocity
by: Billy Collins
open on my lap and my pen uncapped,
looking every inch the writer
right down to the little writer’s frown on my face,
but there was nothing to write
about except life and death
and the low warning sound of the train whistle.
I did not want to write about the scenery
that was flashing past, cows spread over a pasture,
hay rolled up meticulously—
things you see once and will never see again.
But I kept my pen moving by drawing
over and over again
the face of a motorcyclist in profile—
for no reason I can think of—
a biker with sunglasses and a weak chin,
leaning forward, helmetless,
his long thin hair trailing behind him in the wind.
I also drew many lines to indicate speed,
to show the air becoming visible
as it broke over the biker’s face
the way it was breaking over the face
of the locomotive that was pulling me
toward Omaha and whatever lay beyond Omaha
for me and all the other stops to make
before the time would arrive to stop for good.
We must always look at things
from the point of view of eternity,
the college theologians used to insist,
from which, I imagine, we would all
appear to have speed lines trailing behind us
as we rush along the road of the world,
as we rush down the long tunnel of time—
the biker, of course, drunk on the wind,
but also the man reading by a fire,
speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book,
and the woman standing on a beach
studying the curve of horizon,
even the child asleep on a summer night,
speed lines flying from the posters of her bed,
from the white tips of the pillowcases,
and from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.
It is so true that life seems like a carnival ride that keeps getting faster and fasters as we get older and older. When I was my son's age, summers lasted forever, and a day at the fair was a two-week journey down the Amazon with stops for cheesy fries and cotton candy.
For me, today seemed like riding a bullet train. Like Collins, if I were to sketch my family today, we would all have speed lines flying from us. I don't think young people are aware of the velocity of time. They're too much creatures of the present, savoring each moment like a fresh cheese curd. Being the father of one grown child and one almost-grown child, I realize how precious the time I had with my kids today was, and I savored it. Even the vomit.
A little while after I got home from the fair, I got a text from my sister that our aunt (my mom's sister) had a stroke this morning. She's doing alright. She's able to move both arms and legs, and her speech is only a little bit slurred. She's been improving slowly during the course of the day.
Another example of velocity. It seems like only yesterday that my aunt and uncle came up to attend our wedding. But that was almost 30 years ago.
Saint Marty just wants things to slow down long enough for him to have another Italian sausage smothered in cheese.
