It's a quiet Saturday, with Julia already in Phoenix for the start of her trip down the Grand Canyon on Monday; Aidan at work; and Dylan staying with me, watching some of his favorite TV shows and movies.
When wondering how Julia's trip is going, I will just have to use my imagination. They don't take their cellphones on the raft down the Colorado (too wet) so she will be out of communication the whole time.
Among the things we bought the other day were waterproof, light-weight pants and a floppy hat to protect against the relentless sun. She also (as I mentioned earlier) needed a waterproof camera, which used to be common at stores like Walgreen's, but no longer are, as Walgreen's has completely abandoned the photo business.
So how did we find one?
The Internet. I have an Amazon Prime account, which allows us to locate things and get them delivered overnight. I think it costs $100 a year. But the kids and grandkids add up to 12 birthdays a year, not to mention all the school supplies and other purchases needed by people still growing.
So it actually makes financial sense for me to be able to shop this way.
In this case, she found a camera on her iPhone as I was driving her to Bernal and she ordered it on a laptop, while talking to me via our phones back at my office, after our lunch hour excursion was over.
The old brick-n-mortar era no longer works for me anyway, since I am working all the time. This week I missed some work, not feeling very well. I think I had some sort of flu. The symptoms reappeared overnight, so I am being very cautious today, not exerting myself.
And as much as I wish I could trade texts and get iPhone photos from Julia during her adventure, I'm fully capable of using my imagination instead.
Imagination is, of course, the main tool of the fictionist. Although I've written a ton of fiction, I've published very little. Non-fiction writers like investigative reporters use our imagination to help envision patterns in data and other source materials.
Here is an example. Years ago, old wooden pier after old wooden pier burned down. It was as regular as the fog. Every time, the fires were called "suspicious" in origin, but no one was ever arrested. The people who owned the piers were politically well-connected, and what went up after the ashes were gone were modern developments worth millions of dollars.
As far as I know, no one ever solved the mystery of those fires, but for me, in my imagination, I could kinda see what was happening there. San Francisco was an exceptionally corrupt city in that era, and in some ways it still is. Some of the same players remain, quite elderly now and very rich.
Maybe I should have written a novel about it?
That never occurred to me.
***
Today, feeling a bit weak still, I am missing a birthday party for grandson Luca. This is his "friends' party." I'll get another chance closer to his birthday in a couple of weeks when we have his family celebration. I'll no doubt order his presents over the Internet.
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