"Most people will reflect back to you
Dad was playing the drums, knocking and tapping his ring on the steering wheel of the car. Every now and then his thumb would make the bass. I wiggled my leg to the rhythm, sitting in the backseat and looking out over the fences into the fields and orchards of Yakima, Washington.
We were on a two-lane road under the direction of my grandpa, who up to this point had been pretty talkative, naming the various rivers and "cricks," and mountains hiding in the horizon behind their thin valleys. Now he was sitting in the front next to Dad and not saying a word. I watched him. He was hardly moving and his eyes would fix on a thing and then he would half-point his hand. Sometimes his lips would make the hint of talking. He was pantomiming to the scenery, having a conversation with things I couldn't see. Dad played the drums faster; Grandpa was making him nervous.
"You say you know a good place to eat?" Dad asked.
Grandpa Willard smacked his lips and put his hands on the dashboard. He leaned forward to the windshield to see something.
"It doesn't seem that there's much out here, Dad," my dad said.
"Turn right down here," and his pointing finger indicated left.