Last year on Memorial Day weekend I was in Essex, taking the Steam Train up to Deep River and the Riverboat to Chester and beyond. This year I just so happened to be there again, those same towns, that same route, only not on the Steam Train and Riverboat.
I didn't think of it until I was back home again, and I didn't do it on
purpose. But it's uncanny - or entirely predictable, who knows - the way I (or maybe all of us)
inadvertently create our own little traditions, our personal miniature seasonal cycles of experiences and movement.
It's like some secret muscle memory is calling us back to the place we were before, trying to make habits out of randomness, order out of chaos.
Now that I've identified this nascent tradition of mine, I wonder if next year I'll feel compelled to return to the Connecticut River Valley on memorial day weekend.
I wonder, if I'm somewhere far away, will I suddenly remember where I "should" be and miss this place.
Or, if I'm close by, will I return - on purpose or not - and come to always associate these towns with sacrifice and flying flags.