I woke up somewhere in Ohio, jarred awake by the rattling of the coffee thermos, as the hills slowly eased down into plains and corn fields multiplied.
A hawk on a fence post watched us pass on the interstate, unmoving and unmoved. The sun shone warm through the windshield.
And as the miles rolled past and the landscape flattened and the sun rose higher, the cornfields dried out.
They were shorter in Ohio. Yellow and shriveled in Indiana. All signs of the drought I’ve been reading of, the drought that really hasn’t touched me yet.
We drove west this weekend, logging hours and miles in the new-to-us blue Accord, crossing Ohio and Indiana and dodging semi trucks west of Gary and South of Chicago.
My brother got married on Saturday in a Methodist Church in the Chicago suburbs. My family drove north from Texas and we drove west from Pennsylvania and for less than 48 hours we said hello, goodbye.
We paid more in tolls on the stretch of highway going north in Illinois than we did across the state of Indiana, and fought choked traffic heading into the Windy City, and breathed a bit easier when we crossed the state line back out of Illinois.
(Illinois is officially off our list of potential places to live.)
We ate McDonalds for the first time in ages and tried not to think about what we consumed.
And now we’re home, and the brother’s off to Switzerland.
But that hawk in Ohio was there again when we drove east, to home. And I expect he’s sitting there today, watching the traffic flow on the interstate.