In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

55 Driving with the Dead The little bus ate the road, rose toward the sky, topped the mountain, perched on the edge before falling toward the valley, white lines clicked in rhythm to Mickey’s drums, tape deck humming, there is a road, no simple highway, between the dawn and the dark of the night. The mist gathered, fell in a steady drum on the roof, merged to rivers on glass. Truck tire spray, like white angel wings, washed us, on our flight through the dark. The author’s great-great uncle, James S. Thomason, and friend, St. Louis. c. 1915 ...

Share