And the beat goes on

Well, I'm in Laramie, Wyoming. I stopped early again because my car is starting to act up and there was no way I was going to risk breaking down on top of the Continental Divide in the dead of night. That is an experience I never ever want. As a native Floridian I have a natural fear and hatred of mountains and the thought of being stuck on them tomorrow has given me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. Nevertheless, I will continue to try to be optimistic.

The grooves in the road west of Des Moines, rubbing against my tires, made a sound like the war cry of a Sioux brave. It was foreboding and, perhaps, foreshadowing.

In Aurora, Nebraska, I stopped into a Shell station. The clerk was tall and gangly, all adams-appley, with hair that was no color at all, if you know what I mean. On his head was the most marvelous bowler hat in a color brown that exactly matched his uniform, as if Shell was issuing its employees bowler hats now.

The clerk's store was stocked for every eventuality, with food and drink, tools and supplies. The stock included samurai swords. In case one were attacked by a corn field, or something.

I tell you, I would love to vacation in Nebraska, driving up and down the back roads, taking pictures of the beautiful old white wooden churches and run-down farm houses, some with family burial plots next door! With wrought iron arched gates, even!

Driving along the Platte River, I saw surprisingly diverse countryside. West of the conjunction of the North and South Platte Rivers, an area James Michener had a lot to say about in his novel, Centennial, the land started to dry out and rise in bluffs and plateaus. An amazingly swift transformation. It is a beautiful country and how I wish I had the time to stop and admire it.
  • Current Mood: stressed
Sorry you're stressed; loving the posts.

Wishing you mountainous success!
I spent my childhood in small Kansas towns.

We found seashell fossils on the prairies sometimes.

I went to a white clapboard Episcopal church with spirea bushes outside and with wavy green glass in the windows. There was a reed pump organ, which I played for the family service sometimes.

My dad took us once to Pawnee Rock, where somebody--Pecos Bill? Wild Bill Hickcock?--got shot.

I loved Kansas, with its wonderful big skies, its green vast wheatfields, farmhouses with windbreak trees clustered around, high winds, amazing blizzards, the Royal Theater where we watched Westerns on Saturdays, cottonwood trees...

Really. I wouldn't mind if Fate sent me back to Great Bend, smack in the center of the United States. There's a fine old park there, with crawdads under stone bridges.
Every time I read something like this,

The grooves in the road west of Des Moines, rubbing against my tires, made a sound like the war cry of a Sioux brave. It was foreboding and, perhaps, foreshadowing.

I think you are a novelist, and when you do write your novel, it will be a classic. Literature.
I've never felt the pull to write even a short story.

Admittedly, when I started on LJ I had no idea whether I would be able to write anything or even keep at it for more than a few months.

I do make an effort to write things like that. Sometimes they just pop in my head and sometimes I struggle with them.

Who knows what the future will bring. Maybe I will write a novel some day. Never say never, right?