In which we arrive alive.
We call the GPS "Alice," from a song in which the refrain goes -- well, I don't suppose it matters. Never mind that song. I've been making an effort not to use foul language.
Alice the GPS -- yes, though Alice didn't complain, she was peeved with our average speed on 3.4 mph for nearly two hours and then, later, in a separate incident, 7.9 mph for an hour and a half. It was a trial for her to keep displaying the awful truth that the destination is STILL five hours and twenty minutes away. She was good enough to keep a civil tongue in her flat head because it appeared that there was no other route options available. But eventually we got there.
We log a lot of miles, Captain Winnebago and me. We listen to books on tape, catch up on the podcasts we like (CarTalk! Radiolab!), point out various live and road-killed animals as we spot them. We saw a barcalounger on the side of the road, and the skipper said, "They aren't very fast, are they?"
We slogged through nearly the whole first CD of a bad YA novel before switching over to Dorothy Sayers' Strong Poison. Lord Peter Whimsey and Harriet Vane made our time in highway limbo pass less heavily.
The other drive-time entertainment we enjoy is in looking for the untold story. Like this one. That's a work-trailer absolutely packed with 5-gallon buckets. Hundreds of buckets. Neatly stacked. Used.
What in the name of Hephaestus are they used for?
At the end of the day -- not using that phrase metaphorically, it was actually the END of the day -- we pulled the rig into a friend's driveway and gratefully shut off the engine. Outside the Winnie, as I type, lightning bugs are streaking around and the cicadas are dueling with the frogs for the last word.
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