For a guy who routinely loses his train of thought, such as it is, between the kitchen and the bathroom, I've got remarkable clarity when it comes to the most inconsequential memories.
I was just remembering a road tip my family took the year we landed on the moon. We had visited an old Auntie in Sandusky. We were on our way to the cousins out in New Jersey.
It was a Sunday morning. We were driving through Wheeling in a 1967 Chevrolet Bel Air station wagon. I was allowed to sit in the back, by the open rear window, where I could surreptitiously make rude gestures at following vehicles, because that's a lot of fun when you're twelve years old.
On that particular Sunday morning, in Wheeling West Virginia, there was a guy out on the street with a garden hose, washing his red GTO.
Why does your brain waste storage space on shit like that?
A little further along on that trip, in moonshine country, on one of those twisty two lane county roads that Junior Johnson once roamed, a '67 SS396 was on our tailgate for a few miles. Why you would remember such a trifle fifty years later is completely beyond my comprehension.
We watched the moon landing from a basement rec room in New Jersey.
Seems like a long time ago.
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