Some places I recognize from visits long ago. They seem like islands in a changing sea – somehow not eroded by waves. There is a miniature golf course where I may have played as a youth.
A flying club from where I may have been strapped in an uncomfortable and noisy seat which smelled of high octane aviation fuel.
And there is a now-converted farmer’s market where I used to help buy farmer’s vegetables, cod and salmon, and the best summer sausage ever made.
And there is a racing drag-strip where I watched supercharged hot rods race the ¼ mile in less than 8 seconds.
And then there is still a green path where I walked to high school so long ago.
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