The Last Leg Home

Looking out the car window, I am surrounded by miles and miles of farmland. Big squares of corn, huge rectangles of soybeans, all lined up, stretching to the horizon. There are no hills, forcing the crops into a crescent shape, or mountains, requiring terraced plantings. It's a quilt of green, the seams made up of county roads and mile-long driveways, the image broken by ancient brick farmhouses and solitary Oaks standing sentry, guarding my passage Home.

The drive from Indianapolis International Airport is less than 60 miles, but each and every time I have made that trip, I've felt like a princess, my carpet of green unrolling before me, I-65 my private path to refuge. The trees in the distance mark the winding of the Wabash, following me almost to my parent's doorstep, the landmarks never changing: "Cowboy Bob's" house, Lebanon, the Lincoln Lodge, the Lindy Freeze in Linden, the "Castle House" in Romney, and once there, I know I'm within 7 minutes of Home.

I've lived in stately Virginia, with rolling hills and green forests separating neighborhoods, in grand California, the Pacific stretching as far as the eye can see on one side, a deadly desert on the other, I've lived in ancient Japan, with forests of bamboo and hillsides covered in tea, but none make me feel so welcome as my patchwork of corn and soy, a lone Oak my beacon Home.