The other day I said that I thought that the fields that were spread out there before us reminded me of a quilt that had brown, green and dark green patches. I also said that I understood why you weren’t scared to drive fast on roads as windy as the ones we were on -- you used to live in a place that had hilly roads with plenty of curves. “Wow,” we would say, when we’d emerge from the forest-flanked roads to see vistas of rolling farmland, “this is really beautiful.”
And then of course there were all the tree-lined streets and the shade and the shadows and the hills in the distance. And then I asked you, “How are mountains actually formed?” and you said, “I think it’s when the earth comes together,” and then I said, “Yeah, that I know, but I mean, those there” -- I was pointing at the hills -- “aren’t really mountains; they’re hills, actually. How do they get formed?” And then we talked about how we would love to redo high school because now, if we were to be taught things like “how hills are formed,” we would be paying full attention.
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