North on 35...

The truth is I'm not in much of a hurry to get home on Sunday afternoons. I have one world in LaCrosse and one in St. Paul. Each has their own joys and struggles and both demand something from me with the time in between often the only time truly my own. So why hurry?

I suppose it would be different if there was nothing to see, but the road along the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River from St. Paul to LaCrosse is among the nicest trips around. Everywhere there are trees, bluffs, sleepy farms, quaint river towns with names like Maiden Rock and Alma, and old houses with fresh coats of bright paint clinging to the hills. On its best day Minneapolis seems contrived and mechanical compared to, say, Trempeleau or Stockholm. More often than not a part of me just wants to pull off the road, find a job, and spend the rest of my life looking at the river, writing poems, and watching the sun set.

The truth is that I'm charmed by it all and the vision of quiet nights listening to nothing louder then the bugs on a front porch swing. Life seems to be too precious to blow it all on commutes and standing in long lines at enormous stores. As my car moves along the road thoughts like this tug at me and touch a place inside that's beyond the reach of the various roles I'm asked to play in a production not of my own choosing.

And its not the first time I've felt this way and it probably won't be the last. Some day, when the time is right, I'll park my car somewhere along the river, say "enough" and find an old house with a big window for the cats, floors that creak in all the right places, and walls full of time.

If not now then at least in my dreams...