Note to Self

Across the road, as we drive up Route 1 from Rockland to Blue Hill, Maine, a sign in the middle of a green field in front of a riding stable reads:

Freedom Riders

I’m so old that I was a freedom rider. Well, nearly: I went South one summer as a civil rights worker. Something about the sign annoys me a little. People risked life and limb for a cause that had nothing to do with some snooty riding club.
We continue toward our destination.
Hours later, returning, now driving on the same side of the road as the sign, I can read the subtitle:

Freedom Riders
Instruction for Special Equestrians

I smile.

I do not stop to photograph the sign, as I did one we saw the previous day: