That's the year my mother insisted we make a detour through Heart Mountain,Wyoming. She had been interned there during World War II, and I guess she wanted to return now that she could arrive in style. I love the road because it cuts quick to the bare essentials. There are certain truisms that surface on the blacktop, so to speak. A couple that drives together stays together.
Women require many more pitstops per hour than men, that's another.
The gasoline high, the speed rush, the protective cocoon of the car means even the tuneless among us can't help but be infected by that white line fever, drumming on the steering wheel and wailing to Sly, The Everly Brothers, Martha and the Vandellas. But we arrive to find the store a disappointing little bungalow off a suburban shopping strip, not far from the Comfort Inn where the singer and star-crossed legend was gunned down by her fan club president. This is where I realize I must have lost my shoe in Port Lavaca, our last pitstop. Mini-Mart when I settled down in the passenger seat and kicked off my shoes before we hit the road. I must have kicked one of the pair right out the door.