Once, in the Winter of 1943 Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy took a wrong turn as they were driving along the Hudson River. They ended up on Route 12 in Upstate New York. Whilst consulting each other's knowledge of the area, Mr. Kerouac stepped back, leaning on the side of the Sherburne Public Library and spat into the freezing cold air. The locals leered at them, wondering what kind of mischief these young men meant to get into, wondering about their daughters. Neal humped up into the drivers seat and hi-tailed it back South. The little bit of saliva that was shot from Mr. Kerouac's mouth froze to the ground, buried under inches of snow. In the summer the spit was absorbed by the Earth, and in its place grew a giant climbing tree. My mother, as a teenager, climbed that tree many times. When she was 19, she climbed it again but slipped and fell between the legs on one of the large branches, breaking her hymen. A few weeks later she discovered she was pregnant with me. And here I am.