Linnea

I

Day 280: Linnea

Linnea has been my companion in the car for 15 or 16 years, along with a slightly bigger, much yellower and more pessimistic Bert. She fits in the palm of my hand. 

A shocking percentage of people have stuffed animals in their cars. I put these in mine as a sop to the kids. When they were imprisoned in their car seats in the back, I could pull Linnea and Bert off the visor and toss them over to serve as a distraction. The blush quickly faded from the rose: Linnea and Bert hardly interrupted the fussing for a moment. 

Like all the other parents in my neighborhood, we were religious about buckling the kids in. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for them, though. When I was a kid, we drove to Fort Lauderdale every other year to visit Emma's namesake, my great grandmother, and her son, Uncle Sherlock. We would drawl around in the car, stretch out on the floor or the rear windshield, climb back and forth to the front seat and generally enjoy as much freedom of movement as a six foot-by-six foot moving box can afford. Nowadays, unbuckling your seatbelt long enough to adjust your pillow is a spanking offense. 

Rich and I are in the car this very moment, driving to Captiva Island to meet the kids and Jane for five days on a warm sandy beach. As part of their Christmas, we flew them to St. Augustine instead of making them endure 1,000 miles each way in the car as they have so many times before. This time. Linnea is at home in the Goodwill box. Bert, however, is still tucked in the side pocket, with his scowling black unibrow and worried expression. 

Bert, I intend to keep.