Veeder: Childhood homes bring back ghosts no matter how long we’re away
It’s just a ribbon of asphalt. Yellow lines swish and break, swish and break on the other side of the windshield in my dad’s little white Ford.
There was a time when pickups didn’t have back seats. Kids like me, we would sit on the passenger’s side of the bench seat, or in the middle where our knees would bump and move to make room for shifting into reverse, our bodies barely tall enough to lift our noses up over the dash so we could see the landscape roll out in front of us.
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