My day is made up of glimpses. I think I keep the mountains in my mind everyday, but, even in Shangri-la, the glimpses of getting from point A to point B can lose their impact. One of the constant exceptions is on my drive to the town over the state line.
There’s a glimpse that forces me to gaze at a greening field filled with baby goats as the Pastoral symphony play on my internal iPod.
Then there’s the ride back.
Most of it is still glances, except for the part of the journey that takes me past the goat farm, but in the opposite direction. That part is a glance and then a gentle guffaw as a hand painted sign bearing the words “Kids for Sale” comes into view.
The perfect curve of the road and sunlit field are the fantasy of country life. The sign is the business and the art of surviving that life with a sense of humor still fully intact.