Stopping to look

We'd walked up to see the giant sundial at the rest stop on the French autoroute between Genea and Southern France. On each trip we try and find something new to discover, not a hard thing to do.

On the stroll back to the restaurant we saw a cross that looked like it might be some kind of war memorial.

Instead it was a grave  of a man who had died 100 years and one day before. The plaque was almost a poem saying how he had wasted his young life and blessed his parents. It implied he'd killed himself which would explain why he wasn't buried in a traditional cemetery.

The story must be so much in depth than those few lines.

Rick and I are becoming professional pokers. In each of our pokes we stumble on something interesting. But then again, I've had lots of practice with J too.