Mom met Dad in Pennsylvania. It was 1967 and she was hitchhiking from place to place. People did that back then, she says when she tells it. You didn't have to worry.
"Want a ride?" he'd asked, drawing rein and beckoning to the place beside him on his dangerous-looking buggy.
"Okay," Mom said, and climbed in. "That's the biggest horse I've ever seen."
"It's the pastor's buggy," he explained. "His whiskey, too. You're not supposed to leave, but I left. Help yourself."
She looked over her shoulder. There were two bottles of whiskey, as well as some apples and a torn sack of grain. One of the bottles had already been opened. Mom took an apple.
He passed the reins into his left hand and drew a pocket watch out by its golden chain. He checked the time.
"Is that the pastor's, too?"
"No." He unclasped the watch and threw it into the ditch. "That was mine," he said, the reins back in both hands.
"That looked expensive," she said. "Where are you going?"
"Where are you going? I'll take you there first."
"I'm not going anywhere."
After a silence, he cleared his throat and said, "I'm probably going to New York City, I guess."
"That's pretty far."
He frowned at her, considering this, then smiled suddenly. "No rest for the wicked?"
"You can't go into New York City with a horse," she pointed out.
"Why not?" he asked. "It's a good horse."
Mom looked at the horse. "Oh," she said, and nodded.