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Drivin’ one? Oh, honey, it’s a hoot! My cousin Buford had a beat-up ‘89 Escort, red as a rooster’s comb, and that thing rattled like my knees after a long show. We’d pile in, six of us—don’t ask how, we was skinny back then—and zip to the drive-in. Felt like “a paradise lost,” like in “Tabu,” cruisin’ with no cares, just laughin’ and prayin’ it wouldn’t stall. Surprised me how it kept goin’, tough lil’ bugger! I’d holler, “This car’s got more heart than me after three whiskeys!”

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So, I take a deep breath, grab my coffee, and head to the park by the IJsselstein windmill. It’s beautiful there, man. I sit on a bench, sipping my drink, and just chill for a sec. I watch people walk by, families, couples, and I’m like, “This is what it’s all about.”

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