My oldest, again.
Last summer my daughter was staying the summer with her aunt in New York, which meant that I had to get her and her car up there from Virginia. I enlisted the aid of her older brother, who rode up with her in her car as I followed in mine.

On the way back my son spotted the wind farm that was off of Route 12 south of Utica and started taking photos of the turbines on the horizon. I thought about it for a moment, then said, "You want to see if we can get a bit closer?"

We took about an hour or two out of our trip home to try to figure out how to get up the hill to these windmills. We made it, and we both took pictures from up close of these gargantuan things as they roared over our heads with blades the size of God's own machete slicing the wind into small gusts.

As we drove home and he raved about how cool that was, I thought back to how my own parents would never have stopped, let alone tracked the turbines down, on their way from one place to another. I felt proud that I had taught my son that it's the journey that matters more than the destination.

Now if only he'd show up on time once in a while...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 28 Nov 2010, 4:07, Reply)