Ogg, I pit-stopped at a blue collar bar out on Route 1 near Mount Vernon. No special reason sent me ducking through its doorway except my yearn for a stiff pour of gin. The illumination created the sallow tint reminding me of a club where the callow Bird, circa 1940, may've refined his jazz chops...
As we wheeled out of Yellow Snake, Mr. Kuzawa at the helm in my cab truck, the ground mist reflected the white glare off the headlights back into our eyes. As my breath and pulse settled, I cranked the window handle and let in the crisp air. Inhaling the heady fragrance to the honeysuckle robing ...