The routine of it all was what sticks in my mind. Getting in his 1985 Dodge Ram pickup truck and hitting all the regular places; the places we would go to for fun. In some ways, I feel as if I remain a passenger in his pickup truck to this day; the hood ornament of the truck was a die-cast Ram’s head, replete with curved horns. Getting in that truck with dad was like climbing aboard a Vessel, with a capital V. Looking back on it all now, it is as if his entire character was manicured. From the leather jackets, to his mesh baseball cap and nicotine stained fingertips, the man was mysterious to me. The truck stop right over the state border in Elkton, Maryland was a frequent destination for us. We’d catch a movie in the trucker’s lounge, for free. After that we’d eat at the restaurant.  To anyone else this might seem like a strange place to bring your eight year old son, but when you live in the suburban U.S.A., you’ve got to be open to experience. Stuff out there is ordinary. Our history only goes back a couple centuries. We don’t have castles popping up all over the place. We’ve got old factories echoing the chimes of their workers and endless roads that pretend to bring you home, but sometimes never do.