There are certain things you ask a man before you marry him. Questions like: "Have you done this before?" and "are you on any anti-psychotic meds?"
And then there are the ones that slip through the cracks, like: "What do you mean you don't eat arugula?" or "you've never imagined living anywhere outside the Midwest?"
But there are others that, once the baseline of "born and raised in America" is established, are just assumed to be true.
Like Mark Twain.
Every American who reads has read Mark Twain.
Or so I presumed.
I wasn't cheeky enough to assume that every American has inhaled Mark Twain the way I did when my dad brought home volumes one and two of Twain Unabridged when I was in Junior High School.
But Tom Sawyer? Huck Finn? Given.
No. Not true. My darlin' companion -- who consumes books daily, outnumbering my weekly intake by at least three-to-one -- has never read Mark Twain. Any of it.
Which explains why his eyes didn't spark like firecrackers when I suggested -- many moons ago -- a road trip to Hannibal, Missouri, boyhood home of Mr. Twain, née Samuel Clemens. And then suggested it again. And again.
No sparks. Not a one.
Finally, I insisted.
This weekend we right that wrong: the car is packed. The Twain on tapes are at the ready. And Hannibal awaits.
With interim stops along the way.
Posting from the road.