Our road trip was a time of quiet contemplation. For T, it brought back memories of childhood road trips with his mother who drove a Ford LTD, one of those huge floating worlds that they called cars in those days.  Ten feet of hood, six feet of trunk and benches long enough for an adult to sleep in. They used to stop at Husky truck stops and he would get the apple crumble.  The apples would still have that fresh firmness and the crumble would still be crispy.  It looked like it was made in the bowl, fresh and home made.

We ate at an odd assortment of places, many of them the kind that serve french fries with everything on the menu.  It was hard to find a fresh vegetable and even the fruit in the ‘fruit cup’ came from a can or had that telltale sliminess that happens to fruit when it’s seen better days.

When we stopped at a Husky outside of Swift Current, Saskatchewan T ordered the apple crumble.  It was a disappointment.  The crumble was a misnomer.  It should have been called apple slither.  The apples had a soft mushy texture and the taste that used to pop! fizzled instead.  And it was short.  It used to sit tall in the bowl; now it’s a little square that looks like it was cut from a pan that came from far away.

Some childhood memories should be left pure, lest they be ruined by our attempts to relive them.