It appears my kindred owned the shroud of Turin.
At the end of the summer of 1970, four intrepid souls got in General Eisenhower, my 1950 Dodge Coronet, and headed West. At four o’clock in the morning as we crossed the Rockies, my beloved Dodge blew an oil seal. No one could drive, but me. I had not slept in twenty-four hours. As we descended into the desert near Winnamucca, I pulled Eisenhower over to the side of the road as the sun rose, and told my fellow wayfarers;
“This far, and no further!”
James Harkins, Robert ‘No Doz’ Delano, and Rena Christsensen, could not comprehend what had happened. Eisenhower was consuming three quarts of oil every fifty miles. No way could we make it to Nebraska where we would drop off Rena so she could go to college, and, we three artists head on to Boston. After pooling our money together, we put our beautiful Muse in…
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