The next day, I slog out in the mud, hefting each of the three batteries and rewiring them in the underside of the bus. I can feel electric clicks, hear them in the stop arm. There’s juice. I slip behind the wheel and turn the key, holding my breath. The diesel engine coughs a couple...
When I was 5 years old, I loved to wear my grandfather’s hats. Irish hats, fishing hats, knit hats. I’d put them on and feel like an adult, transformed as I sat on the floor and played with my big, yellow Tonka trucks and earth movers. They were larger than life, toys for grown-ups,...
We are living in a bus. Any fears of being too confined, feeling claustrophobic, not getting along in such tight quarters, they’ve all been left on the side of winding Bucks County road, somewhere on the trails forged by Washington and the Liberty bell protectors and plotters of the Fried...
This trunk was made to cross oceans, to weather whatever storms life conjured and threw at you. It was constructed tough, a steamer trunk to travel the world, to journey across deserts, to get banged and battered and wet and froze. It was intended to hold everything worth taking, because taking...
“Why are we watching this chick flick?” my 21-year-old nephew asked. He’s been Swiping Tinder profiles and playing motocross on his phone, watching out of the corner of his eye, wondering why his super cool uncle was watching two women talk about their no-good, rotten men at 1...
In April, I was escaping; but from what was uncertain. Two years had passed while I wasted nights in a dumpy hotel room by Venice Beach, my temporary move of convenience morphing into a lifestyle. Being a writer, I felt like a cliché, and some of those nights the cliché was the only part I...
