There are perfect days. The sky is cloudless, the temperature is in the mid-70's and there's a slight breeze that won't deflect a tennis ball in flight. It's a day for sports. Kids of all ages play softball together in the streets. Sunday, July 2, 1978 was not such a day. There were neither clouds nor breezes. It was a perfect day for a drive.
\RA, a thirty-five year old computer programmmer realized this and acted. ``Janet!'' he called to his high school English teaching wife. ``Round up the kids (Don, age thirteen, and Scott, age seven)! We're going for a ride!'' All agreed that a ride would be perfect, and in a short while (ten to fifteen minutes) they were in the car heading west for Chicago.
Don was restless. ``Dad,'' he said, ``turn on the radio. I want to know how the Indians are doing!''
``Indians?'' said his mother; her pretty face in a grimace. ``They are being discriminated against by big corporations even though they were here first! I think it's a shame; but I don't think they should be allowed to get their land back because people have their houses on it and it's not their fault usually---many come from immigrant familes who arrived here from Europe long after the `Ghost Dance' fiasco.''
``I mean the baseball team; the Cleveland Indians, stupid!'' jeered Don, disgusted. His mother snapped back at him. ``Don't you talk to me that way, young man!'' and she pouted, arms crossed, feeling humiliated.
``C'mon, Dad, put on the radio!'' Scott said. Scott was still able to look at his big brother Don with awe; the frequent beatings Don inflicted upon him merely reinforced Don's godly powers in the younger sibling's mind. He often liked to get on Don's good side by backing him up in family squalls.
``Well,'' said his father, ``we'll listen until they give the score, then off it goes. This is a family outing, and your mother isn't interested in baseball. She has a social conscience.''
They all agreed, and they soon learned that the Indians were trailing, 6--0.
``Now let's sing a song!'' suggested Janet. They didn't know any songs, so they chanted their phone number and home address, not forgetting to include the zip code.
``I think we've reached a limit,'' said Rick after a while. ``And the boys aren't saying the area code,'' added Janet. Scott and Don sunk low in their seats as their mother flashed them several quick dirty looks in succession.
Soon Scott had to go to the bathroom. They stopped at a gas station, then went off without him. Don had a fit of hysterical laughter.
Up ahead, geese were on the highway. Apparently, a truck carrying a load of corn had crashed into a trailer, spilling its cargo all over the place. Fortunately, no one was hurt seriously in the accident, but Rick felt nothing but intense irritation at the geese on the highway. He honked his horn, but only a few flew off. He had to stop, get out of his car and sweep the corn off the road with his snow-scraper which he'd (fortunately) been too lazy to remove from the car that spring. He had no problem getting back into the car. As he started off again, he thought he saw a seven-year-old boy far behind them; waving his hands and shouting. The car accelerated, and Janet wondered what her husband would look like without any clothes on.
A mile later the tires had trouble turning, so they slowed down. They were able to see a herd of cattle off to the left. The cattle were fighting viciously for tufts of grass.
Finally, the entire car broke and the Ames family had to walk. To break the silence, Rick said, ``Can you imagine a mountain, as big as the eye can see?'' Caught in a traffic circle, his wife and son didn't reply. ``I was only asking,'' said Rick glumly.