If you've never taken a two-and-a-half hour ride in an old Dodge truck with its blue paint faded and chipping, it can be hard to imagine. Suspension is nonexistent, while every component of the vehicle – loose or not – rattles with such ferocity that one might be forgiven for imagining oneself inside a bass drum being rolled down a hill while a two year old happily bashes away on the outside. The intoxicating aroma of dog and oily rag makes such a method of travel something of an acquired taste. Sunlight beating on the grimy windows made the dust motes in the air shine like fairy lights. I might have started out showered and clean that morning, but by the time Pa and I got to Rylstone no one would know that the tan on my lily-white legs was caused by the thin layer of dirt that coated everything in the truck; but next to Pa, I was always as pale as chalk on a blackboard. His hair, a salt and pepper mix of wild, wiry curls peeked out from around the brim of his hat, adding to the rugged look of his hard-worn, wrinkled face. His skin was a dark chocolate brown from a lifetime of working in, to me, unimaginable conditions.