A Decade of Difference

You can be the difference. You can make a difference. Don’t let differences cause a difference. Got that?

I’m a Baby Boomer, my sister Sydney, a Gen-Xer. We look at life from different view points. Canned, to Sydney, means fired. My position on canned is fresh pronounceable food preserved in glass jars.

To Boomers, mail requires eight cents of stationary and a fifty cent stamp. Gen-Xer’s mail requires an eight hundred dollar lap top and a hundred-ninety dollar monthly fee because the cable company talked you into something called a bundle.

A coach taught my kid to play sports. Sydney’s Coach carries her wallet which is empty because she spent so much money on a purse.

I whip up home style food in my kitchen every night. Sydney has Mama Mia’s Home-Style restaurant on speed dial.

Despite our decade age difference, we agree with three things:

  1. Gray hair must be banished with noxious chemicals. Hold your nose.
  2. Your body will puddle over your couch if you don’t stay active.
  3. Going out to eat doesn’t count as physical activity.

We share the same genetic anomalies. We don’t posses the gene that stops you from eating less than three cookies at one time. The C gene, which requires a regular intake of chocolate, is also in our DNA.

The solution to this dilemma was to have adventures involving real physical activity. I tried getting my sister interested in golf, a great walk and you hit things with a club.

As a Gen-Xer, Sydney expected the instant gratification of achieving a hole-in-one off the first tee. I’m content to get the ball TO the hole in less than eight strokes. Sydney gave up on golf when more marks chalked up in the eternity in Hell column because of excessive foul language.

We decided on a walk in a destination cooler than Hell, Seneca Rocks, WV. We’re not psycho on the exercise. We want to eat a few cookies not an entire cake so we agreed our adventure would begin when we got to West Virginia by car.

I noted our decade age difference when Sydney programmed our destination into the GPS on her telephone, three hundred dollars plus monthly fee. The GPS entity, which she named Lucy, determined it would take one day and two hours to reach the rocks. Cool, if we had more time, money, and were going by way of Mexico. Lucy was one dumb cookie or Sydney forgot to push start.

I pulled out Mr. Map (free from gas station) and figured three hours.

Though familiar with the beginning of our route, Sydney was reassured when Lucy informed us where to go. I informed Sydney of my need to go every forty-seven minutes, hence the three hour time frame.

Farmland gave way to mountains. Lucy yapped every one point five minutes, “GPS signal lost.” West Virginia doesn’t do GPS or rest areas.

A wrong turn to Sydney meant panic, to me double adventure for my money. With streets named Bear Dog Lane, located down the road from Gospel Music Park, we weren’t going to end up in the Hood. I figured we were headed the right way when the only direction was up.

At the trailhead, Sydney loaded her day pack with sixty pounds of camera equipment. I carried extra water. Sydney’s choice gave us photos as a remembrance of our hike. My choice kept us from death. The three point eight mile hike was supposed to take fifty-one minutes and did not. With unseasonable ninety degree September weather, the walk up the side of the mountain was hotter than Hell. The sign should have read hike feels like eight point three miles.

Sydney and I could butt heads over the way we see life. I get ice from trays in my freezer. Her ice drops directly into a glass placed in a slot on the refrigerator door. In West Virginia, they put a bag of ice in a cooler on the porch in front of your motel door. Differences aren’t right or wrong. They’re interesting.

When Sydney freaked about being the only guests in a motel with no cell phone service, I smiled. An obscure device called a land line rested on a table between the beds. Differences? Just smile.



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