It was, as they say, a ritual. Sunday meant church, a change of clothes and a relaxed dinner. Sometimes it meant football and other times a bit of yard work but always, if the weather allowed, it meant a drive in the country.
Even without a visit to nearby grandparents, there were excuses to be out and about. There was growing corn that needed checking, bittersweet to be cut from the ditches, fresh gravel to be tested. In spring, we looked for the first robin. In autumn, the last leaves swirled and scudded like vast, colorful clouds while we counted the bundles of snow fence waiting along the shoulders of the road. “They’ve got more fence out than usual,” my dad would say. “Must be expecting a hard winter.”
On the rare afternoons when corn, cattails or bittersweet failed to entertain, we’d read the Burma Shave signs or “collect” out-of-state license plates. There went “Minnesota”, a common enough sight. Here came “Illinois”, a reminder of far-away relatives. “But look!” I squealed from the back seat. “Montana!” We might as well have discovered a Bedouin galumphing through Iowa on his camel. Continue reading