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My mother loves to argue, and love is the only argument you can win by saying yes.
The highways of Missouri cut through round-shouldered limestone cliffs, buff and cream and foam and gray, dove and scum and chalk, but as we get farther down the interstate, rustic woods start to thicken and picturesque valleys dip down. The landscape suggests gaps and hollers and falls. The water gets lazier, the glitter goes slower, and here and there the air multiplies itself into fog.
