Others had said I should get on a plane and escape. I knew that wasn’t for me. It was only a long weekend but surely I could get away. The weather was perfect. Temperatures in the low 70s. This turned out to be one of the best decisions I would ever make.
I took to the backroads. These were my roads. They worked there way through the countryside much like the veins in my body. These roads had soul. They had life. Maybe not the life they once had. But, that was part of their beauty. The lost lives of the past. The weather worn signs of the past calling out to travelers.
The pace was much slower here. You could enjoy the scenery. Soak in the sights, sounds and smells of America. The long forgotten one. The core of our countries existence. Each passing mile added to my memory. Each old home place told a short story. With the snapshot etched into my brain at 45 mph. All would be saved for a slideshow on those days I couldn’t get away.
Sure there were countless planes jetting across the skies overhead. On this day, on this journey, the only plane I needed was the one made by holding my hand out the window. For it zoomed along just above asphalt altitude searching for it’s destination.