WE TURN WEST OFF I–5 toward the coast, following the South Fork of the Chehalis River through clear–cuts to a state park for tomato–and–butter sandwiches. That afternoon, we stumble upon blackberries behind a Dairy Queen outside a little mill town.

All the while, Grandma keeps talking.

"I was waitressing at Johnny's Dock when an important man came in. I didn't know. Turns out he was Richard Nixon. Campaigning …"

Worried we've passed the last RV park and not sure this is going anywhere, I interject to ask where we should stop tonight. Vera's Travel Tip #2: Stop wherever the hell you want. "Rest areas, campgrounds, the side of the road, fairgrounds, in the parking lot of the Elks, in a haystack. You see, we're self–contained!"

Self–contained or voluntarily admitted? She continues her Nixon story, eventually reaching the conclusion that the former president had a neck just like anyone else, and they tied on his seafood bib same as they did everyone else's.

"Grandma, sure we shouldn't loop back?"

"No, no," she says. And here we go again. "I was the oldest of eight children. You know that. Four boys and four girls. The last child, Maybel Jean, died as an infant after World War I. Contagious flu. I was about ten years old and she died in my arms, holding her just like this. The minister came down in a speeder. He said she'd never go to heaven, because she wasn't baptized. Can you imagine!"

I can, maybe, as soon as we turn around.

"And that's why you don't believe in heaven," I say, knowing the prompt.

"I've held it against religion ever since. I don't believe in heaven," she says, before adding a tidy witticism I haven't heard. "I don't need reservations anywhere."