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Interstate Innocence
(1975) I loved the smell of the old Greyhound bus station, something about the exhaust from all those busses. But my Ma didn’t seem to like it there much; she seemed kinda nervous. Maybe I am confusing her disdain of the filthy bus station with the trepidation she must have felt with sending me, her thirteen-year old boy, off to Texas for a month. I dunno, but I did what I could to calm her, which meant doing what she said, promising to write and telling her how much I would miss her. ...