The other day when I was driving home from Provo, I stopped at a fruit stand on 8th North in Orem. There were mostly apples for sale, so I asked the man there which variety was his favorite. He said Fuji. So I bought a basket of Fuji apples and he threw in a few extra for good measure. Meanwhile, Mt. Timpanogos loomed blue behind us both, along with the small patch of orchard that hasn't been plowed under for new homes. This man was my paternal grandfather two generations ago.
Later that day I took our car into Bobby's Car Clinic on Third Ave and immediately felt at home when I inhaled the familiar scent of oil on concrete. Bobby was my maternal grandfather two generations ago.
It was one of those days where time, in the words of Joseph Smith, became one eternal round.