Just got back yesterday afternoon from visits to relatives in New Mexico and Colorado, where the dry heat was wonderful and where you could almost hear your flesh sizzle if you stood out in that dry heat too long.

It was so wonderful to drive a couple thousand miles and see few billboards. If other states operated as Missouri does, the majestic windmills of Kansas and Colorado would have been obscured by junk roadside art and I use the word “art” advisedly.

Nancy has a new car. It has adaptive cruise control that keeps you a safe distance behind a car or truck in front of you. I thought I wouldn’t like it. I do.  I set the speed at 85 and let the control run the car with the traffic while it maintained appropriate intervals between our vehicle and the ones in front. It even threw on the brakes if somebody swerved into our lane.  An interesting experience.

I did turn off the feature than keeps the car between the lines. I don’t weave but it was still irritating.  We did not try to find out how many miles we could go on the interstate without touching the steering wheel.  Cars are close to that, but we don’t trust the system yet—plus this car demands you put hands back on the wheel in a short time.  It also keeps track of what you are looking at and if you aren’t eyes-forward, you get dinged.

Ding.  And there’s a message between the speedometer and the tachometer telling you to keep your eyes on the road.  And open.  No sleeping while driving this car.

Got home and found a message in my email (hadn’t checked it today) from Amazon wanting my opinion on something I had bought before the trip—a new lens for my camera.  Both of us find these messages irritating.  Everybody wants to know if we are joyful about our purchase. I’ve ignored many such solicitations, but Amazon was persistent wanting to know how I used the item and was I happy. So yesterday I told Amazon:

I used this lens to take pictures. 

I also am tired of every Tom, Dick, and Harry company I do business with asking if I’m a happy customer.  If I am, I will express it by buying something else later.  If not, my silence will be sufficient.  Quit wasting my time by begging for a compliment.  It’s as irritating as the restaurant bill that gives me choices for tips.

After all—what the heck does one do with a camera lens?  Swat flies?  Roll out a pie crust?  Punch cookies out of the cookie dough?  Make biscuits?  It might make an ashtray with the lens hood screwed on.

Okay, I was a little cranky.  We had driven through rain from Salina to past Kansas City after a long previous day of watching I-70 disappear under the hood of our car from the Denver area to Salina.

People think Kansas is boring.  We, from two families with Kansas roots, respectfully disagree.  INTERSTATE SEVENTY is boring.  But Kansas is a pretty interesting place—as are all places if we give ourselves the chance to travel some smaller roads.

Anyway, we finished the rest of our trip from Kansas City to Jefferson City on highways—particularly I-70—that are uglified by billboards.

Now, if billboards obscured views of the advertised adult entertainment stores that also highlight our Missouri roadways, we might soften our opinion of them.

The great American poet Ogden Nash once channeled Joyce Kilmer (who was a man, in case your schooling never mentioned that) when he wrote:

I think that I shall never see

A billboard lovely as a tree

Perhaps unless the billboards fall

I’ll never see a tree at all*

It has taken more time than usual to prepare this meditation.  Minnie the cat has been extremely glad to welcome us home and has insisted on several re-acquaintance lap times. Brother Max, the mellow one of the pair, is happy to sit in a box on the table next to the desk and be quietly close.

Pets make coming home even better.

*Another of Nash’s non-Nobel Prize works of literature is:

The only thing wrong with a kitten

Is that

Eventually,

It becomes a cat. 

(we do not share that opinion. Most of the time)