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mac macgillicuddy

Some time ago, a long time ago, yesterday -- maybe 20 years ago now -- this same thing happened to me on Cape Cod. Only I was in a car, not on a bike, somewhere in Truro, with my then fiance sitting beside me as I tried in vain to find that cottage we stayed in the year we stayed there and had a sweeping view of Cape Code bay and Provincetown in the distance. Then, suddenly -- that oil slick of time you mention. The car went out of control as, from the other direction, there passed a station wagon full of small children and two parents who, somehow, managed to handle those kids to and from Cape Cod every other year of those kids' formative years. I had a hard time facing that passing car.

But it's the reason we go back there now. It's the reason I like ghosts. Ghosts let you live in many times at once. They let you stand outside of time and look at your life -- backward, and forward -- at where you have come from, often taken that route against your will (or at least not with your will having been consulted one way or another) and where, because of that route, you will then go.

Co-incidentally, and having nothing to do with this of your entries, I just happened upon 20 years worth of photographs in a Rubbermaid box. There were more photos than I remembered, more ghosts than I was ready to greet, and there was proof that, despite a bunch of stumbles along the way, my fiance became my wife and was not only a beautiful bride with silver shoes, but a beautiful choice to go through the next 16-year gamble with.

There were ghosts of kids who started out as babies, taken everywhere with their will having never been consulted, now making some very impressive decisions of their own about where the map should next take us all.

Here's to ghosts, Lance! They are more than our past, our companions, our guides -- they are the soul of our times.

Welcome back from vacation, by the way.

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