I don't remember how we got there, or why we were sitting in a dining room listening to some adult talk about something or another. For seemingly eternity.
And then it didn't.
A small packet of catsup, I have every recollection, can be propelled by hand to a distance of two banquet tables.
The teaspoon of tomato-based condiment can, demonstrably, touch base with at least five innocent bystanders. And for the remainder of that day in Saratoga Springs was divided into thirds: first third: horror and mortification. Second third: silent apology. Third third: suppressed hysteria.
I competed in a horse show at Skidmore College when I was in college. I don't remember anything about the horse I rode, or how I performed, but I can recall exactly the swoop and sway of the car on its way. The upperclassman driving us in his car talked to his audience of student sardines with liberal use of both hands, regardless the conditions of the road.
This time, the trip Saratoga Springs was just delightful.