Carol Whatley, Guest Columnist
During my childhood, the only "vacation" we ever took as a family was going to visit other family in Ohio. It was a 500 mile trip from northern Alabama to southern Ohio, and of co8urse my father had to make it in one day. The day began about 4 am, when my sister and I were awakened, put into the car in our pajamas, and off we went. We shared the backseat, our feet in each other's faces, and tried to sleep. Along about Nashville my father would grudgingly stop for a potty break and gasoline, all the time watching the other cars and saying, "I have to pass them all over again." In those days there was not yet an interstate highway system. This means we drove through the hilly, twisting terrain of Kentucky and I was the lucky one who was always carsick. Every single time I would throw up without warning, somewhere near Paducah. It was sort of a family tradition.
When we arrived at my grandmother's house there was always Tippy, a little black Chihuahua. For years and years, there was Tippy. One time we came in after another marathon road trip, and no Tippy. I have no idea what happened, or why he wasn't there, and no one mentioned it. It's still a mystery today where Tippy went.
I have a friend with a very old cat. Like Tippy, the cat has always just been there. One day my friend was looking through some old family photos of her grandparents and cousins, and in one photo was a cat. This one looked exactly like the one that was sitting on the couch next to her. Mind you, this photo was taken at least 40 years earlier. She looked at the picture, looked at the cat, and decided there were mysteries in life she could not fathom.
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