My favorite roads were the straight ones, hung low with heavy summer clouds like a day-after theatre set--the end fading out, not hidden by a curve, just a little farther than we could see. Before we knew how to slow ourselves down by stepping on the backs of our own feet, before we knew enough to know that we were missing anything.
We kept a bag of jumbo marshmallows in the glove box at all times, for snacking but mostly for spearing with bits of paper hastily scribbled with messages. Marshmallows are the perfect weight for tossing into the next car without being hard enough to do damage, which makes them the best possible tool for high speed flirting or passing caravan messages or plain old target-based road games.
If you wanted me to, I could probably still cook frito pie under the hood, 40 minutes down the road going 55 miles an hour. This is all still my little red wagon, after all.
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