Persistent Memory
In June of 1976 I had a 1965 Corvair convertible in Chevy green, crappiest car I ever loved. It was the summer before I started at the Art Institute.
I got off work at St. Francis Hospital in Evanston on a Friday, went home and got a phone call that meant I’d better drive to St. Louis to referee the latest scrap between my teenaged brother and my recently widowed mother.
It was a chore and a five-hour drive after being at work all day, but I still remember a golden moment when I got out on I-57 with the sun setting over the Illinois prairie. I had the top down and the windows up, so it was surprisingly quiet except for the soft mmmmmmmmmmmmm coming from the engine in the rear. The sky was glowing, the wind was washing over me. I’ll never forget the inexplicable sense of well being I had at that moment.
Persistent Memory
In June of 1976 I had a 1965 Corvair convertible in Chevy green, crappiest car I ever loved. It was the summer before I started at the Art Institute.
I got off work at St. Francis Hospital in Evanston on a Friday, went home and got a phone call that meant I’d better drive to St. Louis to referee the latest scrap between my teenaged brother and my recently widowed mother.
It was a chore and a five-hour drive after being at work all day, but I still remember a golden moment when I got out on I-57 with the sun setting over the Illinois prairie. I had the top down and the windows up, so it was surprisingly quiet except for the soft mmmmmmmmmmmmm coming from the engine in the rear. The sky was glowing, the wind was washing over me. I’ll never forget the inexplicable sense of well being I had at that moment.