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I pause to admit this, but I’ve come to recognize something odd. Despite some (some might say too many) foolish responses to events and people that despite determined attempts on my part I’ve yet to be able to unlove anyone I’ve ever cared about.

Of course, there have been initial desires to punish or get revenge on those I saw as failed or betraying loves. But once the heat or pain of loss and humiliation begin to fade I found that, damn it all, I still cared and in effect continued to love the loved one I was for one reason or another parted from.

It seemed to me it would be a lot simpler and easier to swap love for hate. It’s not. Not for me anyway. Whether reluctant or not, I could see at least some of the two-sides where I was also or as much at fault as anyone.

Sad. But at least in part my eventual recognition of not being able to unlove might be an accidental realization that continuing to love (doesn’t require continued contact or association) is likely healthier to the spirit and less draining one’s energies than hate.

Vengeance isn’t mine because I’m too lazy for it and would rather see my time and energy go into something of more use.

Now that I’m back home and recovered from the mysterious multi-pox that hit home 48 hours after reaching my home base I have to say how nice it is to be free of cruisers.

Sure, I liked some of the tours, the well-done meals and the mint on my bed each night, but after much is said and repeated the value of home is an indistinguishable something that feels familiar and homey and nice.

Frankly, I have some damn nice memories of some of my recent travel locations. Far as I’m concerned there is no price I could put on the value of being taken (almost said hauled) up, up and further to the heights of Victoria to be told in emphatic glowing words the view was grand and exceptional on days when it wasn’t foggy. Nice to know.

And lucky, wasn’t it, that in addition to the the glories and virtues of a potential view we’d arrived at the very doorstep of a mall where stuff could be bought. What a lifesaver! Nothing to see there. There were things to be bought there.

It was a happy event that fog clouding the view was no cause of despair for the tour guide who had only to point the way mall-ward, thus saving us from a wasted trip and boredom from looking at fog, which on any day at any time isn’t of much visual interest, ‘bout equal I’d say with looking inside a feather pillow in dim light.

Guides (in Twain’s book referred to as Fergusons) have a particular skill for delivering their bus loads of supplicants at one or another places where stuff was being sold. How convenient and beneficial for the sellers.

A Ferguson worth her or his salt has an instinct for delivering buying opportunities to the bus weary. And yes and for sure it’s near universally the case that a visitor just off a ship will be herded onto a bus along with some people who should rightly travel in a specially equipped Medi-van.

Because we are nice (including those of us who do not wish association with niceness) we sit in patient composure while the immobile passenger is nudged, lured and brought to seating position so the bus can get going.

These people-handling events are more interesting if you’re fortunate enough to be close to the front where such action is usually focused.

The same invalid handling entertainment is repeated if the tour shifts to a boat ride. Get off a ship, get on a bus, get off the bus, get on a boat one must eventually exit to return to the bus. Note there will be four time-consuming but entertaining invalid maneuvers in the basic sequence. They do not charge extra for that.

On occasion a cable car or rail ride will come into play. Depends, I guess, on how lucky you are.

But, back to home. T’other day I was gassing up at a small-town station where I’d grown up. No surprises until. How to explain this? Know the age (between 10 and 12) when kids (typically boys) catch fishing fever? There’s as yet to vaccine for this.

Anyway, as I gassed two bicycling boys appeared carrying poles like lances on charging war horses. Some things haven’t changed much, including attire. Boys going fishing are not style conscious. Slightly to seriously grubby is the norm, starting with much battered and worn sneakers worn sockless. (I’m mildly happy with use of worn in the preceding sentence.)

As I recall my early days of Pisces infection my fishing sneakers were an ecosystem of their own. They were not allowed indoors. Mother was adamant. I and my feet had to be sneaker free and thoroughly rinsed at the backyard spigot. Access to mother’s fine cooking made all such sacrifices well worth the small cost.

A stringer of pan fish borne homeward hanging from a bike handlebar didn’t require proper attire and in most cases slapped my knee often enough to transfer aura of sunny or crappie to me. There’s nothing much delicate about boyhood fishery.

But, good-gods, seems how while some things seem familiar there are changes (grubby sneakers aside) afoot.

Inside the station as I paid by card the boys produced kid money, meaning loose change and lint from combined pockets. Were they buying pop and goodies? The story is not that conveniently simple. Their cash was dedicated to the purchase of bait. Worms.

I was stunned. What had childhood or boyhood fallen to? When did digging your own worms fall from favor or cease having popularity?

Could it be that modern parents think shovels as tools too dangerous for children? If forbidden the hazards of shovel use did the contemporary young’un not have the sense to turn over rocks or pick crawlers after dark?

Senegalese monkeys had the wit to cross a road by way of the phone line. I wonder if the modern child would do as well.