Thousands of picture postcards lie in a crate at the end of my bed. From California to New York, Texas to the Black Hills of South Dakota, I have thousands of mementos of summers spent with my Nanny. Down vacant country roads and busy city highways we went in her cream-colored Ford, which wouldn’t go over 45 m.p.h. on steep hills. Granny, my 70-year-old great grandma, was relegated to the backseat after getting us lost one too many times in places that conjured images of men with chainsaws. I was 8, but I was in charge of the map.
