Descending through the clouds the view is white and the plane rocks in the turbulence. I watch the whiteness, waiting for the break, that moment when it all opens up to the ground below. At first it's a tease � a short opening, a flash, a glimpse of roads and fields and trees � and then it's gone as quickly as it came. But soon the giant bird eases its way down through the fog and we pass over malls and school buses and offices to a smooth touchdown on the tarmac.

Reading Kerouac on the flight re-inspired me. All my thoughts came to me in eloquent, descriptive poetic phrases, every observation deserved to be written down. I gazed upon the marshes of Florida, the rivers branching off into streams, appearing from above like a lizard, it's legs splayed, its head cocked, its tail curved a bit. In the distance, a distinctive cape jutting into the Atlantic, two distinct, large white buildings the only discernable structures from this distance and I realize it must be the Kennedy Space Center and Cape Canaveral. Two weeks ago to the day was to have been the day Columbia would've glided in � just to the left of our plane as we turn westward to land at Orlando � for a smooth touchdown on a February Florida morning.

Here in Titusville I've met Casey's grandparents, her dad's parents, who picked us up in their white Lincoln Town Car (which Casey and Tessa have dubbed "the Marshmallow"), enough room between Casey and me in the back seat for a beverage cart. Up front, mounted on the middle of the dashboard, sits a bubble compass and I smile � this is Florida.

My last grandparent � Mom's mom � died in 1997, six years ago this May. It happened during finals, or maybe study days, and I flew home from South Bend for the funeral. Mom's cousins from Boston, New Mexico, upstate New York, California all came. Grandma's last sibling, Bob, came from Michigan. All three of Grandma's siblings were represented by their children. Being here reminds me of Grandma. Casey's GPs are eager to talk about Casey and her sister, quick to tell of her dad's younger days and ways, ready to point out all the photos spread around the house, as good grandparents should do.

"One night we were going out to eat at a Mexican restaurant in Johnstown," Grandma Angie told me earlier. "And Casey said, 'I'm not eating there!' We asked her why not, and she said, 'Because I'm not Mexican.' She thought because she was Italian she could only eat Italian food."

I was once given a project in school for which I had to interview a family member or friend over the age of 65. There were basic questions we had to ask � Where did you grow up? Did you own a car? What did eggs cost? Milk? Etc. � but we were encouraged to go further. It was the first interview I ever conducted. I wish I still had the result of that assignment, or even the notes. Especially the notes.

Come August, AJ and Angie will have been married 56 years. 1947! The year before my mom was born, 11 months to be exact. That's history. At dinner tonight � in a loud sub-Orlando Bennigan's with slow service and no one else older than 55 to be seen � Angie told of the time, "when we were going together," that AJ brought her home from a date in Johnstown. It was winter and it had grown so late that the streetcars had stopped running for the night. "My mother refused to let him stay," Angie said, "so he walked home, in the cold!" AJ didn't remember how long it took him to walk all those miles, or how far. "I went all the way down Westmont, over to this street, then all the way up that one," he said (I paraphrased), "but I didn't mind. I used to walk all over back then." Kerouac took great care to keep record of his own history, Jen has done it with hers, and I attempt to do so with my own. I opened this [paper] journal to write tonight for the first time since July 2001, a few weeks before I met Casey. I carried this book with me on my travels to Nantucket, Cincinnati, Boston, and I wrote about her then. I lie here in this guest room bed � the Adult Room, Casey explains, because there is no door for the bathroom and she's only stayed in here once � writing an account of the day before drifting off to sleep, and I remember how it was that summer of '98 when every adventure I had found its way into the journal I carried then.

I need this trip. It couldn't have come at a better time. I need it now; I need it here. I need a break from work (first and last mention); I need a break from the computer. I need the soft air of Florida (I felt a cold coming on yesterday); I need a low-key, no-pressure, pampered hiatus from the bills and page proofs and snow and neighbors and the calamity of it all.

I need to sleep.