The feeling hit you-- up that winding hill, this rocky, twisting road-- of something akin to the off-putting wonder and terrible strangeness of American life that made you bit queasy yet excited with the possibilities. . . . . like an amphibian/reptile/dragon darting out its tongue and gobbling a fly as a little boy stared on transfixed. This was my aunt's house with my two cousins and. . . . . Uncle Dave. The aunt, in question, was brilliant and rotund-- grinning on like a crocodile while more cosmic descriptions could be written about her husband. An auto accident at the age of 19 had left him with a speech impediment, if not other forms of addlement, and years before he had kept coming around the ice cream stand where she worked. Curiously enough, she accepted his offer "to go stepping out" there in her yellow shirt in apron and the rest is lost to family lore.

Because this area was outside the purview of St. Louis county in the gnarled, tangled underbrush of forest that looked like green bumps from the interstate highway, you could light smoke-bombs out in the front gravel and no one was there to stop you. My cousin Tony lived a wooly, alt/skateboard existence with BB guns and punk rock banners and heavy metal magazines and video game/computer hardware in a tangle of wires and old boxes. You had the impression that he could either build a music synthesizer or a rocket launcher-- you weren't quite sure which, not with the bass guitar leaning up against the wall.

In the meantime, you had the impression that the American military was off around the world, fighting anarchy and protecting our glorious way of life, as stirring as a kid laying on his belly and playing with old "Star Wars" figurines on pea green shag carpet as Aunt Jan opened up another bag of hamburger buns for the 4th of July celebration and Dave watched "Dukes of Hazard" reruns.