White Feather, you stirred memories of childhood road trips. My prominent such trip was from our home outside Baltimore to Evanston, Illinois for my grandmother’s funeral. I was six. Hours laying the the back of a 1960 white station wagon, watching the overhead clouds or sitting lonely in the back seat (my father and I made the trip alone) watching the passing fields of juvenile corn stalks or the buildings of small middle-American towns and vibrant cities thriving in the steel boom days.

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I was always a writer but lived in a bookkeeper’s body before I found Medium and broke free — well, almost. Working to work less and write more.

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