Every summer my parents would pack us up for months of camping. My father is a photographer, and he’d plan these trips around his work, various teaching jobs and photo shoots, all across the U.S. Our camper was a thin shelled box sitting on top of a 1966 Chevrolet pickup truck. An economy model with a propane gas stove, a sink and a table-- no shower, no fridge. 15 lb. blocks of ice kept the food from rotting. Lukewarm sponge baths from the sink or campground showers did the same for us.

One summer newer RV's appeared on the road-- sleek, silver Airstreams throwing our reflection back at us as they roared past like first class trains. Showers. Refrigerators. Incomprehensible luxury. The era of block ice was drawing to an end, but not for us. Melting cubes swiped from motel ice machines tided us over when we were low.

The stale smell of drowning food. The propane stove my mother was always afraid would leak catastrophically. The hours my sister and I spent reading or counting Mack trucks from the top window. The tongue my father prepared that seemed to gape at us from the roadside picnic table. Cities, campgrounds, parades, outhouses, wild animals, and strange characters suffused in the haze of thousands of hours of highway travel. Writing these pieces put me back in that camper, where time seemed to slow, while outside tiny white signs furiously ticked off the next tenth of a mile.


Many thanks to Scott Solter for his savvy and empathetic ear. Thanks also to John Darnielle, Kio Griffith, Michael Greenberg, Bryce Dessner and Alec Bemis. Special thanks to Dick Connette for his support and ideas.