Back to the memory tar pit. A little irony of life. The puzzle with one missing piece. Our every ordinary living day is an adventure. The art of it never stops. This for some reason reminds me of a small tackroom my father and I shared at Longbranch Racetrack in the 40's. He slept in the bottom bunk because he usually was out at nights and the bottom was easier to access without waking me. Only early in the morning I was able to sneak past him outside and over to the stables. I would open the exercise pony's stall, lead him out, stand on the hay bales, climb onto his back and ride him out the back gate and down the side of the road we would gallop. I would ride him to the school, into the schoolyard and around in circles to the delight of the children. A stressful experience to the pony called Billy. I would dismount, slap his ass and away out of the schoolyard and back down the road to his stall he'd go. Those are the moments of real freedom we remember.