Another morning drive.

August 14, Skidway Lake.

Another day, another eighty mile drive.
The road stretched straight and monotonous, the homes modest, the lawns large and mostly immaculate, a sign for the Dung Hill Ranch (no more,) a junk yard that went full circle and shut down, all sorts of home-based businesses advertisements, hair salon, old-time Michigan sharpener, fresh coffee (arrow pointing left onto a side country road,) the landscape becoming wooded half-way here.
At mile sixty-five the shop truck's engine went south and we drove the rest of the way at the speed of an Amish buggy on a leisure ride.