Heard these guys on the rebroadcast of a Prairie Home Companion today, and oh my good giddy aunt, these guys give me goosebumps.
The Cities Service new Directomat, located on the New Jersey Turnpike, gives travelers directions at the push of a button, 1961.
If I were paid like, a buck minimum every time someone, upon hearing that I am a history major, asks me if I’m gonna be a history teacher, I would have no problemo paying for graduate school.
And it’s not a rap against those people or history teachers, but rather a rap against history majors, because apparently we aren’t creative enough with our careers to imagine something different.
I take most of the drive by night.
It’s cool and in the dark my lapsed
inspection can’t be seen.
I sing and make myself promises.
By dawn on the high plains
I’m driving tired and cagey.
on the mileposts, like candle flames,
flare their wings for balance
in the blasts of truck wakes.
The dust of not sleeping
drifts in my mouth, and five or six
miles slur by uncounted.
I say I hate long-distance
drives but I love them.
The flat light stains the foothills
pale and I speed up the canyon
to sleep until the little lull
the insects take at dusk before
they say their names all night in the loud field.
— “Iowa City to Boulder,” by William Matthews
I survived today. If I can survive tomorrow, I will be the champ of all champs.
Mother’s Day weekend, my aching feet hate you.
Just applied to graduate in one year.