We’re in Iowa. Two days now. It’s down time and it’s got us a little “antsy”. You know, we’re not moving. We’re not going anywhere. We’re still not in a National Park. In fact, we’re sitting in a waiting room attached to a garage that’s bigger than two airplane hangers while our 24′ RV has levelers installed in it. We’re not “on the road”. The hanger is pretty much in the middle of no-where. Surrounded by corn fields with a few roads paralleled by drainage ditches. A few distant farm houses with barns and silos attached. Horizons in every direction passed over by moving clouds. And we wait. I took Jackson for a walk so that he could do his business and I could get up off of these uncomfortable chairs and stretch my legs. As I crossed the large dirt parking lot with Jackson tugging on the leash, I noticed a beautifully marked, rather large bird that was spending more time running around in front of us on the ground than it was flying. The large dirt parking lot was lined with large chunks of sandstone, I’m assuming being deposited here from the bottom of some ancient ocean. We reached the street and headed up the hill with no destination. The drainage ditch was about 20 feet wide and filled with quite happy cattails and a variety of tall grasses. Jackson occasionally made a charge into the reeds at some imaginary animal, at least imaginary to me as I didn’t see it. Red winged black birds perched on a fence on the far side of the ditch and then circled close to my head and screeched, most likely cause I came too close to their ground nest. Up ahead I noticed a cross, partially hidden in the lowest part of the ditch. Grasses had grown tight around it but it had neat, black, letters on it. RIP to a person whose last name was Peterson, followed by Semper Fi. I stopped to take a photo. Who was he and how did this memorial get set up in this spot. Was he hit by a car here? Did he end this life at this spot at all? In a sense, it was a more beautiful spot than being assigned a plot in a cemetery. Here you were surrounded by life. Lush, green, reeds of grass with yellow seed tufts. Lavender and pink wild flowers. Cackling birds and small invisible rodents. I slowly realized that we weren’t experiencing down time. We were experiencing time. I had finally taken the time to observe. To notice. To appreciate where I was at the moment. And then I thought of what I had told my students so many times, in reference to their year of learning: “It’s the road, not the destination”, or, “The road is the destination”. This was our destination. It was wherever we happened to be.

I looked up and gazed across the fields to a distant farm house. I wondered what it must be like to live and work in a spot like this. Every day, big, broad, skies that were sometimes blue, sometimes dark with blowing winds and pounding rain. Skies so big that you could watch it raining on another farmhouse 100 miles away while you basked in the sun. A life where you had your hands in the dirt every day. You could smell its richness. It was permanently a part of your finger nails. Where your crows feet are deep crevices through deep tanned skin, born out of countless years squinting under the life giving sun. Where you didn’t talk much, as your neighbor was 5 miles away. Most conversations took place in your head and centered around all those things that affect your crops, your tractor, your life, your loved ones lives. I’ve always felt at home with the common sense manner of speaking that people from the mid-west talk with. I’m going to guess that their talk is a fruit born out of saving meaningful words for the few conversations you might have. It’s an honest style of talking. It’s simple and to the point. You don’t have to wonder what your hearing. It’s honest as the day is long and honest as the sun on your face. I’m glad we stopped in Iowa. I don’t want to wish I was somewhere else tomorrow.