So a cross-country road trip is like writing a book. You begin at the beginning but you can’t reach the end without driving through the middle. Gotta let the ride happen, can’t rush it.
My son and I are on a dip your feet into the Atlantic all the way to a dip your feet into the Pacific kind of trip.
Maine is water and mysterious primeval forests. Massachusetts and Upstate New York are trees. Pennsylvania is rolling farmland. Ohio is much the same. Indiana is quick, thank god, and Illinois is almost as quick. Again, thank god.
But Iowa… my home state of Iowa is paradise. Don’t let anyone tell you the soil in Iowa has lost its fertility. Don’t let anyone tell you Iowa is a one-trick pony– corn and soybeans and nothing else. Iowa is colleges and books and libraries, forest and fields, farms large and small, the Amanas, pastureland, cows, pigs, chickens, sweet-smelling hay, and yes, corn and soybeans. It’s been that way for generations.
The forests are so thick in my hometown you can’t even walk through. We spent one evening, and one night. Took a short hike and saw deer, wild turkeys, fireflies (oh how I love and miss fireflies!), and we ate at Christie Creme – a hangout since my father’s day. The cheeseburgers with grilled onions are still as hot, juicy, delicious as ever. And they still sell homemade sherbet– the flavor changing daily.
Best of all? We got hit with a good old fashioned Iowa thunderstorm. Sigh… I feel complete.
Sometimes the middle is the best part.