Bosky

We were in the car for an hour, mostly stuck in traffic, inching along the highway behind a gleaming white BMW with Jersey plates. We could see the outline of the driver and assumed, more than surmised, that she was the daughter of some sleazy New Jersey shore lord who’d been given the Beamer for a high school graduation present. Traffic thinned slightly just north of Wilmington, and we made the Pennsylvania border, a few moments after the BMW and its pampered operator (whom we imagined with a 64 oz. Diet Coke in one hand and an iPhone in the other, based, in part, on the thoughtless weaving in front of us and, to be honest, on our previous experience with UD undergrads from New Jersey).

The roads were better once we were in Pennsylvania. We turned off the main high way and cut west on 30, towards Lancaster, half-expecting to see Amish buggies this far east. Then we headed north again, through a bosky countryside dotted with knots of colonial civilization, toward Phoenixville, our destination.

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