And then we went off the lakebed and up into roadcuts of vetch-covered till among the kettles, kames, and drumlins, the Wabash Moraine, the New England landscape of glacial Indiana. “This would be a good place for a golf course,” Anita remarked. “If you want a golf course, go to a glacier.” We left the interstate for a time, the better to inspect the rough country. “I grew up in topography like this-in Brooklyn,” Anita said. “I didn’t know what bedrock meant. You could plot the limit of glaciation in New York City by the subway system. Where it’s underground, it’s behind the glaciation. Where it’s in the moraine and the outwash plain, it’s either elevated or in cuts in the ground.” Back on I-So-and running now on a pitted outwash plain, now on a moraine-we crossed the St. Joseph River. Anita’s thoughts were still in Brooklyn. “My father died twenty years ago,” she said. “When he was a little boy, his mother told him that if he ever ate food with his yarmulke off he would be struck dead. When kantoor huren per uur haarlem she wasn’t looking, he lifted his yarmulke and ate a spoonful of cereal. He didn’t die. He quit believing. His faith was shaken.” There was a gold dome on our left-like an egg resting in a bed of new green canopy leaves. It was the supreme roof of the University of Notre Dame. “They’re on outwash,” Anita said in passing, and returned to her reminiscences. “Religious prejudice in any form is despicable,” she went on. “In Brooklyn, when the Jehovah’s Witnesses tried to sell me The Watchtower I’d say, Tm illiterate.’ If they kantoor huren per uur breda persisted, I’d say, ‘Let me tell you about my God.’ ” Again the St. Joseph River intersected the highway, and we ran on through grass-covered roadcuts of a kame complex, and soon through others in a recessional moraine, locally called the Valparaiso Moraine. A road sign suggested the proximity of Valparaiso. ‘Where do they get a name like that in a lacklustre place like Indiana?” Anita said, and we swung out an exit for the Indiana Dunes.