July 4, 2026: I do not know how many pages or scraps of paper I have covered with handwritten notes in my cursive, which is difficult to read if too much time has passed from the scribbled idea to processing.  Today I decided to type up some of these notes.  I found details of my Grandpa Frank’s golf game in 1924 (a 20 handicapper) and Grandma Eleanor holding an afternoon tea for some ladies.  I found an undated interview about Bridgeville that had made it into the “don’t throw this out pile” but was so disconnected I couldn’t completely figure it out.  I typed it up anyway and sent it to my historian friend to see if she could make heads or tails of it.  Then I found something I thought was a dream transcription, until I remembered being in some kind of flight simulator with my son, many years ago.  He was the piolet.  I was the gunner.  Our assignment was to shoot down enemy planes.  The way we were harnessed into the machine, tightly, I assumed our bodies wouldn’t be moving independently of the flight simulator.  I was wrong.  The simulator turned upside down almost immediately and we were thrown on our shoulders, then our butts, then our sides.  Gravity and the simulator had very different ideas about how we should be oriented.  We tried to right ourselves, amidst the laughing and jostling.  I managed to shoot down one plane in three minutes.  We could have done better a second time, but were unwilling to spend more money on it.  We were still laughing at our exquisite failure when we exited.