LETTERS: A REPORT ON A SUMMER VACATION

To the editor:

What I did on my summer vacation. Probably no one cares. And it really wasn't a vacation, for both my wife and I are retired, and you can't take a vacation from a job you don't have.

But we left home for the American-prescribed two weeks and moved about madly for thousands of miles, racing from time zone to time zone and latitude to latitude with careless abandon. An incredibly clever computer disk that even had our own street in its electric gizzard drew our maps and traced our roads. It's a cheap gimmick too, for 20 bucks or thereabouts.

The book I won't write about all of this would have a chapter on Tamarack, a big shed with a roof designed by a fellow gone bonkers but filled with the most beautiful handmade art, all done by West Virginians and all accepted for exhibit and sale after having passed a tough jury.

Be prepared to visit any other craft show with a sad coolness. I too have made wooden bowls and trivets and carved caned, but perhaps will now turn to mouse traps.

Bob Evans Farm is in south-central Ohio, and Sauder's Pioneer Village is in Archbold in northwest Ohio. It is a magnificent time warp. The fellow who make the best assemble-yourself furniture can also take you back. If you have puzzled about the difference between the Off and Near Ox, this is the place for answers. They also have a splendid restaurant and up-to-date tapioca pudding and such stuff.

The best part for me, aside from a relaxed visit with our son and his wife in Cary, N.C., (I can tell you nothing of North Carolina, although we drove about for leagues, there was such heavy traffic that we could never see down to the ground) was the bicycle shop of the Wright brothers in Dayton. Since a visit to Kitty Hawk several years ago, propellers have spun in my brain without stopping, and as enormous jets flew over us in the busy city, I felt anew that the building of the airplane by these two fellows has been the culmination of modern man. The exhibits and the walking tour are as spiritual as factual.

But trips sadly reveal that milk is not the only thing that has become homogenized. We ate the same food, served to up by boys all dressed alike and all names Gary regardless of where we were. We all talk alike and live in similar houses.

Our last gas stop was in Effingham, and as I endorsed the final traveler's check, the senior clerk observed quietly that "August has really gone fast." I have grown mellow. A few months ago I would have snapped at his words and told him that in spit of commonly held beliefs, last August had been just as long as August has ever been. But if he is happy in his illusion and his September begins a fortnight before mine, allow him to keep it.

Hope to see you around town soon.

PETER HILTY

Cape Girardeau