From Centerville, we directed ourselves to the Atlantic, and there was no turning back! Our last significant picnic of the trip sat us on the banks of the Mississippi, backgrounded by barges and moving train trestles. Mud under our feet attested to the river's innate urge to eat land, sucking at our boots, begging us to stay. But we knew it was time to separate from the West and all it had given us.
Highwaying it through the vowel states, we got lost in the corn, tunneled in by magnificent farmers who never rested, mowing berms to neaten their farms, waiting for the harvest. Rows, unimpeded by weeds, shot off into the distance. The deep reverence I feel for these breadbasket farmers is only compounded by meeting them in a breakfast cafe and listening to their casual conversation of weather and machines. Modest men and women, working thousands of acres on machines that could buy a grand house, these people are the heart of our country and they walk low voiced and forgotten.
Mile markers marched and the East presented itself in a snarl. Accustomed to traffic and crowds, we felt like we were home. A rest stop for coffee saw tears unwittingly leaking as we knew this trip was over. Pennsylvania, a misplaced Western state, gentled us onto the turnpike and home.
Inside our garage, we closed the doors, shed our gear. Still half in our trip and half home, we hugged and cried until two loved faces appeared in the garage door windows, capturing a memory forever. My daughters gave another meaning to every trip we make. Love goes with you, but love also brings you home.
The trip is not over! It began 35 years ago and has been gearing up ever since. Many moments are unscripted, left for us to pull them up at random moments or to be sucked away, forgotten. Yet, the roads calling us into the future will write this page for a long time.
Leaving the West
Crossing over
Home!
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