Monday brings memories.
Every Monday, to some extent, but tomorrow Monday more than most because tomorrow Monday is Memorial Day.
Flowers on graves, family cookouts, school coming to a close, the unofficial beginning of summer. That's a lot of stuff for one little day.
Several times in years past, when my husband and I traveled to Oregon to see friends, we helped those friends decorate graves in small cemeteries around Dallas. Yes, Dallas. Not as big as the Texas Dallas, but a lot more fun for us.
We made a point of vacationing over Memorial Day, but not for the honor of respecting the departed, as much as we enjoyed that. No, our timing was more to the point of getting gone before family vacation time hit.
Hey, I'm not against family vacations. It's just that as I get older, I'm less inclined to share my vacations with happy, loud kids.
I know, I know. That's akin to hanging the American flag upside down or spitting on the Bible, but it's an unfortunate fact. The older I get, the less able I am to overlook kids running around me screaming and having a good time.
The good time I understand. I'd just like to see them do it a bit more quietly.
One of my favorite trips is any trip on the train. There's a feeling of security that hugs me when I plop into a train seat - as if all my cares took a different vacation. My only concern lies in choosing to eat in the dining car or the small snack bar. My only difficulty comes with trying to go potty in a moving broom closet.
I realize trains are small, but they certainly didn't give any extra room for the consideration of those in need of an unmoving place to relieve themselves.
All these train memories cropped up in the last few days because I'm considering whether to fly to Denver, drive or take the train. Yes, I just got back from there in early May, but my daughter's friend is being married in Vegas, and the two of us are going to be there. It's a Rockabilly wedding, for heaven's sake, and I've got to see that.
Driving is out. Don't like that trip by myself when I'm on a deadline. But that leaves the plane or the train, and there are good points to each. The plane is faster, the train more comforting.
Well, more comforting unless I run into a pack of Boy Scouts going to a camp-out in California with few parents around to remind them NOT to run up and down the aisles just because they can, especially late at night.
My husband complained not so quietly about that, but such complaints fell on kids' ears deafened by loud laughing and screaming. I told him I'd take care of the problem if he'd switch seats with me. There was, after all, nothing I could do sitting by the window.
He refused. Something about tripping a kid or two being forbidden by the laws of humanity.
So long friends, until the next time when we're together.
Sandy Mickelson, retired lifestyle editor of The Messenger, may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.