Travel has distracted me the last couple of days. I’ve been exploring the frozen wastes north of the Mason Dixon line, expecting at any moment to run into Peary or Byrd or Shackleton or somebody.
They got those people off the Interstate not far from here. The Turnpike has pretty much been open all along. As one cynical local sage told me, "They’ll never let the Turnpike close. It’s a toll road.
Good thing, too, because I’m using it today to drive to the airport and get back home.
I’ve missed Obama, but not Hillary. I’ll try to catch up tomorrow. No column today. I wrote one before I left, but decided that Cindi’s column was better for Sunday.
So, take off, eh?
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Jack Kerouac you ain’t.