Tiny Conical Hats

When we were in Vietnam we took a bike ride through a rural village.  At one point we swerved off of the rutted streets and cruised along a narrow dirt path that snaked along the top of a dike separating the flooded rice fields, sharing the track with cows and people and other bicyclists.  I stood my ground with oncoming humans but the cows were afforded exclusive right of way. They didn't appear too worried about coming out on the losing end of a bike v cow collision. One of the two combatants, I think, would have made an abrupt change of direction, and I didn't like the look of the water standing in the fields.

Anyway, every hundred yards or so there would be a few small temple-looking structures.  We were informed that they were the graves of ancestors, Old Ones from the nearby villages.  I liked the thought that every morning the workers would pause and tip their conical hats to their forebears.  I'm trying to do that in my Quiet Time each morning.  I extend a specific shout-out to mom, dad, and Kenner, and then I tip my pork-pie to everyone who made me who I am today.

Don't dwell in the past but don't forget it, either.

P.S.: Our Vietnam bike ride was with 5 or 6 other people and a Vietnamese guide.  We picked up our bikes at a rental shop and they were pretty much in the kind of shape that you would expect for a third world country.  Moreover, I'm tall and the Vietnamese are not, so even though I took the biggest bike available, I still looked like a brightly colored clown riding a tiny, clown novelty bike, my knees actually extending above my head when I pedaled.  I lost ground quickly to our entourage, a situation that was exacerbated by the fact that my bike was stuck in the highest gear, leaving me to pedal furiously with almost none of the kinetic energy being transferred into forward motion.  I fell further and further behind.  Eventually, the tiny woman leading the tour - Fang - traded bikes with me.  I was a little red-faced about this, thinking she was doing just fine with my shit bike when a motor-scooter scooted by me, a bike propped on the handlebars.  The driver quickly switched out the defective bike for the new one, chattering with our leader, and off he went.

Only in Vietnam.