In a Fiat 124...

...I was heading south with my sister's sister-in law, on a road trip of sorts, to Zeandale, Kansas. The convertible's rag top thrummed as we drove on through southern Minnesota and into Iowa. The band Chicago was on the radio, their clunky fusion of modern big-band jazz and rock assaulted my ears in much the same way as the road and wind noise did. Being 19 and alone in a sports car with a young woman would have been more stimulating, but the extended family thing had pretty well killed any romantic notions I might have entertained. Besides, at 19 I had just about zilch to offer any girl, anything other than my youthful enthusiasm, that is. We switched seats, I was actually pretty good with a stick-shift, and headed onto the Kansas turnpike. I missed our exit and it was about 20 miles to the next one, so by the time we pulled into Zeandale it was past midnight. Zeandale was a crossroads. A half-dozen houses, a farm implement dealership, and a now-closed gas station. My sister and her husband (who was in the military, stationed in Fort Riley) greeted us warmly into their half of a humble duplex. "We'll show you around town tomorrow," my sister joked, although the next day did hold a surprise or two.