As she turns off the highway, heading east UP the two-lane country road, the sun's rise shining on her face, into her eyes, two words tickle her tongue, escape from her mouth. Two simple, but very telling words.
She murmurs those two pictures-of-people-following-a-daily-routine; seeing-it-in-her-head words as she glances at the stream of vehicles cruising along in the opposite direction, presumably holding their occupants as they are driving to work.
She has always understood the concept of the song Little Boxes by Malvina Reynolds as it melodically plays - while displaying a visual presentation of its meaning - during the open credits of the popular Showtime series, WEEDS.
Little boxes made of ticky tacky... Little boxes all the same... And the people in the houses... And they are all the same....
She would watch that weekly show, that brief introduction of how people are perceived - specifically, the perception of the characters on that controversial drama.
You know what I mean...?
The concept that everything is perfect... on the outside, anyway; yet, if you were allowed to step into that perfect world of those perfect people you'd soon realize it's just a facade.
So, there she was, driving UP that peaceful country road, when she realizes Ticky Tacky may possible be more than just a concept; it may be happening everywhere, everyday. Everyone dreams of the good life. The perfect life. Even as a disguise.
She is the lone driver, driving in the opposite direction, UP, at an early hour. She is returning from dropping off her husband, dropping him off at his I'm-learning-quite-a-bit place of employment.
She looks to her left, to the lane full of cars, one lane; a line of cars heading out of the hills, onto the highway. The line grows longer as cars, trucks, and motorcycles smoothly, and graciously take turns emerging into that one lane of vehicles, going in one direction; the off to work I go direction.
First softly, then gradually she slowly bursts into song.
"Little boxes...." she sings, all the while smiling as she drives home; home to her little box - up into the easy-to-breathe, forest green Ozarks.
Later, before she climbs back into the Sequoia, she looks across the road.
She begins to hum. "...And they all begin to play golf on the golf course..."
She whispers that addictive phrase to herself while secretly watching a caravan of golf-carts gliding along, along the small paved path made just for them.
As she heads DOWN that two-lane country road, to pick up her husband, after his I'm feeling productive day, she realizes that once again she is the only person traveling on this side, going West, away from the mountains; the seemingly wrong direction.
Heading toward her, after exiting the highway, driving in a straight line, is a flow of familiar vehicles - driving with precision - a line that does not waver as drivers turn here, turn there, to the right, to the left; until everyone has found their way home, home to little boxes.