I watch people. There is something about just being a silent observer that opens areas of understanding beyond the scope of dictionaries. At dinner last night, I watched a future soccer mom with three kids that were maybe a year apart in age. I say "future" soccer mom because the oldest must have been only around five. Mom looked much older than she should have; she was less than thirty, I am reasonably sure. They were sharing smoothies and a pile of greasy french-fries while hubby, no doubt was catching and releasing bone-fish with a fly-rod or maybe chasing a golf-ball around the greens. Mom was stuck with the kids and there was no joy in her face. Maybe the realization that this is all there is for the next several years has began to soak into her suburban Bahamas vacationing mind. She probably was hot, a few years ago; maybe a cheerleader or editor of here school paper but now she is a mom with three kids. These kids will grow up to be democrats, no doubt. They will wear helmets when learning to ride a bicycle and knee-pads when they try skate-boards. BB guns will never cross their toy-box. They will never know what a strawberry or a peach is supposed to taste like, and this is the biggest shame of all. Peaches and strawberries do not taste like they did when we were children. Genetic engineering made them larger in size, more resistant to disease, more weather resistant; fruit matures more rapidly and the plants produce more per unit than ever imagined. What a wonderful thing science did to cope with the ever increasing number of soccer moms and their brood. Produce more and bigger berries and peaches to feed them and only sacrifice the flavor. Peaches and strawberries now taste like tart remnants of the sweet delicious fruit we enjoyed as children while our skinned knees and bumps on the head healed.