Saturday, June 15, 2013

Worth writing about

I thought today I would write about being grounded in Chicago overnight, sleeping on a cot just a few inches away from strangers. I thought about writing about circling the airport for almost an hour with an hour's worth of fuel before the powers that be decided our plane should fly to Moline to refuel while waiting for an okay from O'Hare for us to land. Ready for a decent into Moline, Chicago opened up a spot for us. so we flew back to the airport where we would spent way too many hours. I thought about it, but I'm not writing about it.

Yesterday I left Angola, Indiana, heading to Furlong Road and my friend Sandy. I was thrilled when I had arrived in Ft. Wayne the day before. I had flown a long way for a sister's hug. But now I was on a trip down to Neff Road. I didn't realize the impact that crossing the Ohio state line would have on me, but a warm stillness accompanied me as I drove past the green fields of corn. I seemed to be driving through my life history. Celina held memories of ice skating and boating. North Star was where Dad once got a speeding ticket. On and on the memories piled into the back the car and followed me to Hogpath Road.

I was excited to get to Sandy's house but knew that I had to go home first. I almost missed Byreley Road. Franklin School was gone. Another piece of my past was missing. Grandad's octagonal barn made my heart soar. Then I turned onto Neff Road. Now you might think it was a sad trip down memory lane. Not so. I called my sister June and had her drive down the road with me. I stopped on the bridge getting out of the car to look at the house back the lane from a viewpoint where we often stood over the years. "June, it looks wonderful!" I said smiling...standing in the middle of the road. Mom and Dad would be pleased to see the place so well loved. I had gone home first for not only myself, but for all of those who no longer live on Neff Road. I needed to say "hi, I'm home" to the neighbors as I always did when I returned to the farm. But I'm not going to write about this either.

Last night I spent the evening with two very dear friends. Judy Neff, Sandy Bridenbaugh and I have been friends since grade school. We lost track of each other over the years of child rearing and living busy lives to return to one another in our sixties. Those girls who were friends have turned into adults who realize that this friendship is precious and one we all want to nurture. We laughed and teased and reminisced and promised to never let go of this thing called friendship. With the loss of so many in our lives, we found that we had gained in finding one another again. We talked into the early morning hours hating to say "good-bye". Facebook had brought us back together and would keep us together. But I'm not going to write about that either.

What I really want to write about is this: I grew up in a beautiful place that will forever be my home. My roots are embedded as deeply in the rich, dark soil as those of the oldest oak. The coo of the mourning dove is sung just for me. I know it. This is my land. This holds my heart and my love. This is well worth writing about.

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