The heat cured this dusty road until oil and asphalt, like lava to basalt, made Highway 99. It connects the farms to towns and to cities. Grain mills, nut plants, orange shaped refreshment stands, cafes and motels, until the miles win out and telephones pole are all that promise you are going somewhere.
My Grandfather smoked Raleigh cigarettes, a brand of distinction. In the summer, on the highway, with the windows up and the air conditioner on, it was 500 miles of cool distinction. I whined too much. Six years old, in the back seat with my sister. News radio, Grandma too. The trip to see my Uncle and Aunt. 1970, and I was there so I guess you could say it was my fault.
Tractors moved like shadows. We passed them when it was our turn. The raisin men watched the road as they bounced. As the discs in their backs wore down a bit more. They watched the road when I would wave and smile. I waved and smiled at everything. To people who passed us, to orange shaped refreshment stands, to people resting under trees in the shade. I was ruining it, this hot day on the road.
My Grandfather smoked and in ten more years I would be carrying him to the toilet. He cried in pain and embarrassment. His eyes were the last thing his cancer would kill. He would look at me, apologize. To me he would apologize. It was me that ruined the trip, that spoiled it all on Highway 99.