gibbog (gibbog) wrote in etwentyten,

More Writing Practice (edited)

I goosed to accelerator to pass the gigantic motor home. I had to be in Burnside by eight or I’d miss the ferry to St. Brendan’s. It was six-thirty, and the traffic was uncoiling like a lazy rattlesnake. I was  a passing machine. A red Camry towing an ugly seventies camper. A blue Cavalier with a canoe lazily tied to the roof. A fat guy on a Harley that almost went off the road when I careened past him. A family of four in a green mini van. I pictured the kids squirming in the sweltering sun, their whiny voices asking “Are we there yet”? I jumped on the gas pedal again and tore past. I had to make better time or I was stuck in Eastport for the night.

Why was I racing like a maniac across the province? Why had I agreed to meet with a total stranger, in a place I hadn’t been since I was fifteen?

It was because I had found my grandfather’s name in a sales book in the Maritime History Archive. The summer semester was over, and I had time on my hands. I had graduated from Memorial.  No prospects, (not yet at least) for a job. It was the middle of August, and I really had nothing else to do.
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