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Dave Zoby essay nterstate 64 from Richmond, Virginia, to Newport News tunnels through thick and silent stands of pitch pines. Occasionally there are breaks in the trees, and the traveler glimpses a farmhouse, peanut fields or a swampy depression in the landscape where cypress knees swim in brackish lagoons. But mostly it's just pine trees and pine trees. They crowd the interstate and block the view on both sides of the highway. At night--when I do most of my driving--the moonlight pools on the pavement. Stars appear in the narrow cut of sky above. Photo by Gene Royer SPRING 2 012 / T HE MIS S OURI RE V IE W Back in those days I departed Richmond when the bars closed. Driving my father's white station wagon, I ascended the on-ramp at Boulevard. I mashed the accelerator and watched the city rise behind me as I fled it. In the wee hours of the night, I raced past Mechanicsville, then Cold Harbor, then Norge, out into the dark, unpeopled stretches of Virginia. The yard lights of farmhouses floated out there, just barely connected to the earth. Is it worth pointing out that I believed the people in
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: May 3, 2012
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