A pretentious name for a pretentious vehicle, my Dad's airstream trailer. You know, the big silver one? Some of you might have a pic of Patricia Ford leaning on one in your pr0n collection. Yeah, that one.
There's a whole industry devoted to detailing and polishing those puppies. Dad got one around the same time as the new wife, and it was hard to tell which he loved more. (It varied, I think.) Anyway, he had the name "American Progress" painted on, along with a covered wagon and some noble looking horses. I don't know what a native American would have made of it, but Dad thought it was just the cat's ass.
He took that puppy everywhere. Cleveland. Canada. California. Places beginning with other letters, too.
He retired after the thresher accident. I always thought that was kind of why Mom left him, too - he got strange. Who wouldn't?
Anyway, he decided to see the World. To my Dad, that was the United States of America, plus Canada and Mexico to check out the foreigners.
Dad was always so careful with American Progress. When New Mom backed it into a ditch in Tulsa, that was almost it for them. But he was a big man at heart. He forgave her.
They don't travel now. American Progress is in a trailer park in North Carolina. I figure it's got one big trip left in it. Hurricane Alley.
It'd be how Dad wants to go.
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