So I'm listening to Light my fire, Jim Morrison's voice right in the middle of my brain because of the way my earphones work, and I'm riding down Route 6 in Wellfleet, Mass. in my father's silver Buick with my brother at the wheel, windows open, hot air flying into the car. It's night and we're just driving to get out of the house for a while. My grandmother and grandfather are in the house, my father is there, so nasty politics is thick in the air: neither side can avoid the nasty sniping. It's the Vietnam era and my brother is afraid. I won't learn until later how much I mean to him--when I spend the summer away from home he writes me, telling me how much he misses me and I'm surprised to read it. We love our trips to the Cape, they are a time of hot sun, sand, seafood, the ocean and the wonderful fresh water ponds we rinse off in on our way back from the beach. We like going there because our father is happy there, cheerful in a way that we don't always get to see. We all love being near the ocean. So that's where I go when I hear Jim Morrison.