“You’re not really thinking about buying that thing?” My wife gave me a look. “Are you?” “No, no,” I said, waving her off. “It’s just for a story.” Yet the image kept going through my head: Me, a semi-retired journalist on an income that’s fixed pretty low, tooling down Sonora’s Washington Street behind the
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Ol’ Leadfoot has surrendered his car key. My dad got into a little fender bender down in Dallas recently and knew at last, the way an aging slugger who whiffs at a pitch he used to wallop into the cheap seats knows, that it was time to call it quits. I tried to cheer him
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