I've written here before about the kind of communication that happens on long car rides, after the adrenaline wears off "and your conversations take on an unfamiliar rhythm. Their properties change. Their purpose changes, and then sheds all purposes, except for passing the time. Long stories short? No, short stories long!"
I'm back this morning, exhausted and dehydrated, from a three-day golf bender in Peoria, Ill., with a bunch of aging 13-year-old boys I know. The most aged of these kids is 67, and he and I drove down and back together. By yesterday morning, we'd had enough time for the properties and purposes to change sufficiently for me to tell Howard, for no real reason, about the time a couple years ago when I took Scout to a track meet and she took the lead in the 400 and I heard over the P.A., "Scout Murray takes the lead," and I instantly thought of my dead father and could hear him giggle proudly at hearing her name—his name—echo through that great old athletic hall.
I apologized to Howard in advance of telling the story that it might bring a tear to my eye. And it was a good thing I did.
Anyway, like I was saying—road trips are good for you.