NEWMANSTOWN, Pa. _ "Is there coffee in the state of Pennsylvania?" I asked in frustration, checking storefronts at another crossroads.

"We’d better find it fast." Uncle Chet peered at his watch. "We’ve been driving away from the church for 12 minutes and we’ve got to get back in 20, or we’ll be walking in late."

"Hon won’t like that," I said.

"Forget her; how about the bride?" said Cousin Bruce, who was wearing a suit for the first time in 15 years.

"I’ll go three more minutes." I stepped on the gas, heading west in southeastern Pennsylvania, past a giant feed mill and a sea of tract houses.

"No wonder the Amish left here," I said. "It’s so crowded."

"The land’s mighty expensive, too," Uncle Chet said.

"Hey, look: A gas station!" Cousin Bruce pointed from the back seat.

"Nothing like gas-station coffee." I turned on the blinker.

"Any pot’ll do at this point," Uncle Chet said, and as soon as we pulled into a parking spot, three car doors opened.[an error occurred while processing this directive]