Midyear in 2007, I got some free Branson coupons so I drove from Kansas City to Branson, Missouri in the Ozark Mountains for a weekend of shows and exhibits. The Midwestern tone of Branson was relaxing, riding the amphibious Duck from land to lake was a little bit of a thrill, Ripley's Believe It Or Not was more than strange enough, and the Titanic exhibit was sad and sobering. I had dinner at Dolly Parton's Stampede. One has to be a true horse enthusiast to enjoy eating ringside (a whole chicken each!) while the horses stampeded around the arena throwing up a dust storm. I did!
I went to a magician's show because he advertised a Capuchin monkey as his assistant, who turned out to be a vile little creature, the monkey not the man. I do not know if it was from abuse or nature,
This particular post reads somewhat like a diary, but perhaps even fairly mundane events like this weekend vacation, taken solo on a whim, add dimension to how American women transitioned from the twentieth century into the twenty-first century, with quite a bit of serenity.
Caption: Annmarie Throckmorton in Branson, Missouri 2007