With cows.

Tomorrow, I'm leaving Boston to visit my brothers and their families for Christmas. I'm looking forward to the 14-to-16 hour drive to get to my brother's house - audiobooks, cigarettes, endless amounts of diet cokes and the highway stretched out in front of me. I'm looking forward to the time to think and to daydream.

This story, though, is about what it was like traveling when I was a kid, when we had none of those things (except the cigarettes, of course, second-hand, from both of my parents).

Some thoughts on socioeconomic class, identity, values and politics, as they pertain to me.*

*And only me. This (for lack of a better word) narrative is just me trying to figure out what I think about all of this stuff. Don't expect solutions or even a coherent philosophy.

"When we're all together, we're fine, we're home," Mama reassured us. We were broken down on the side of the road in our elderly station wagon, light blue with faux wood panels. The five of us were crammed into the first two rows of seats. The rear seat faced the back window, and Mama had discovered early on that we couldn't sit back there without becoming violently carsick. Plus, all of our vacation things were carefully arranged into the back – the coolers, the suitcases for six people, the assorted toys and games, and my hamster in his travel cage.

Daddy had been picked up by a trucker as he walked toward what he hoped was a town with a garage. The dunes of the North Carolina Outer Banks surrounded us, blocking our view of the ocean. We were completely alone, isolated, viewed curiously by large brown rabbits who stood on their hind legs and twitched their ears in our direction.

"Daddy'll be back soon," she said.

In which I tell the story of the story that ended up in Scrymarch's Writing Fun Challenge.

I'm still working my way through Natalie Goldberg's book, whenever the only things in my head are things I don't want to write.

Also, WFC - vote! Brilliant topic from Scrymarch, and 7 highly creative responses (including some lyrics that iGrrrl or technician - or both! - need to record, with guitar by clock).

My entry for Writing Fun Challenge XI: Metropolitan Therianthropes.

Warning: Contains metaphor and evil.

It's iGrrrl's fault, really. We had lunch recently, and we were talking about writing, and she made a comment about how I should format the diaries I wrote while my mom was dying and put them up on Lulu.

With a poll.

Today, I bit the bullet and bought a new MacBook Pro, to replace the failing Macbook I've used (and abused) for the past 4 or so years.

That means OS X Lion.

"How do you know when it's done?" I asked Grandmama. I watched the carrots bobbing in the softly boiling syrup of water and sugar and cinnamon.

She laughed. "After 'while, you can just tell." She moved about the kitchen efficiently, dodging me with a grace that seemed improbably given her size, age, and failing health.

I wasn't satisfied with her answer. I was about 13, and I wanted rules. I wanted to know precisely what would happen when. I wanted to understand the structure underlying the chaos.

Writing Exercise: Tell me what you will miss when you die.