On a country ride in the 1960s, my father and I happened upon a rattlesnake crossing the road in what was absolutely the Middle of Nowhere. My father skillfully veered his winged, blue Chevrolet over that snake, keeping the world a safer place for both of us, and perhaps others, too.
Twenty years later, when we were driving to pick up firewood, I stunned him when I said, “This is where you ran over that rattlesnake.”
He was astonished. The only landmarks in the area were kudzu and grapevine.
“You remember that?” he asked. “It must have been 20 years ago.”
