This is a memo on my phone:
Yes, I’m keeping track of how many Ford Mustangs I see in a day. Of all the cars on the highway, why this one? Well, for very good reasons, such as:
1. I can recognize them.
2. Well, actually, that’s pretty much it.
I don’t really care much about them. But even at 80mph the Mustangs swagger past saying, “Look at me, I’m a cool car!” Plus they have that helpful little logo on the front. They’re easy to spot.
I’m wondering if there’s a hive of them somewhere nearby, and I’m seeing the swarm. Fifty-six in slightly less than a month, and that’s not counting the orange one that’s always at the library, the yellow one parked at the house one neighborhood over, and the vintage one on our street.
But! Collecting Mustangs is just one of the fun things I do on my Sunday drives.
Today I drove a bit of Skyline Drive, which runs the length of the Shenandoah Valley and offers frequent overlooks to take in views like this:
I’m sure not complaining about the chance to gaze over the Blue Ridge Mountains.
But I’ve decided that a national park is not ideal for my Sunday rambles. The park is pre-planned and meticulously designed. There’s nothing to discover there except what The Park wants you to discover.
I dislike having my discoveries handed to me in a clean, government-approved package.
So I gave up on Skyline and instead found Bentontown Road. It wound through the valley along the same route as Skyline — I could see the park highway far, far above me. But Bentontown Road was where real people lived.
The road narrowed to a lane bounded by hills and a creek. I happened upon this house well on its way to oblivion. There was even an old car to add to the atmosphere of quiet abandonment. And the car turned out to be…