One rented white station wagon, a backseat load of trunks and cases, two golf pros lured off the greens of the Mill Valley Country Club to be roadies, Steve Miller in blood red handtooled honest injun cowboy boots, and myself are on our way to the beautiful Buckeye State. Why? Steve Miller is due to play the Cleveland Arena at nine that night. At five Steve and girl reporter (me) are due at his kissin" cousins for an impromptu family reunion. No, I'm not family. In fact up until a few months ago I was foe. Miller and myself had some not-so-fond memories of each other. This all started not less than five years ago:

Me, as an oh-so-cool Coca Cola girl at a local ballroom. Steve, a snotty upstart (I thought) guitarist. The place, backstage at the ballroom. Guitarist insists that Coca Cola girl guards the dressing room door. Coca Cola girl indignantly refuses, and settles back into her crushed velvet haze. Cocky guitarist then demands Coca Cola girl exits. "Not on all your steel guitar strings," she sneers. "You get out, I work here." Guitarist and Coca Cola girl vehemently glare at each other across the room.