I love driving at night. It feels like a video game.
After sixteen hours of talk radio, interstate winds, and screaming into metal boxes for food, my grip on the world grew slippery.
My grandmother was tradition personified, a west side Polish Catholic who served Saturday night dinners of kielbasa and fried smelt.
One of the finest things I own is a lamp with a stern brass pirate, one hand on his hip and the other gripping a long sword.
The 45th parallel is the halfway point between the equator and the North Pole, and you can feel the geography shift when you see all that big pine and cold water.
