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Intolerance "We don't see things as they are,
we see them as we are." An earthshaking clatter rattled us out of our sleeping bags. Train derailment? No, it was from the leaden sky. Odd. A thunderstorm in the morning? But something had to keep our early morning wake-up streak alive. The main part of the storm ran to the north. A few windblown drops sprinkled us before the wind cleared the clouds off, then blew them back in to sprinkle us again. "I have zero desire to spend the day cycling in the rain," I said. "Maybe we should stay and stock up on hot showers." My riding partners needed no convincing. We breakfasted on stacks of golden pancakes topped with fresh strawberries and mounds of whipped cream. When I approached the trash barrel after breakfast to discard rubbish, an old gent from a motorhome sidled over. "I saw a hobo picking through the garbage the other night," he grumped. "I'd a blasted him if I had my shotgun with me!" Yikes! This citizen's intolerance frightened me. I returned to our campsite ... wouldn't want to linger near the garbage bins too long. "Sure glad we have gun control laws in Canada," I declared, before repeating the old man's story to Sharon and Sue. "You know," Sharon said, shaking her head, "the older I get, the less I can stand intolerant people." |
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