I believe this is a fitting start to a first page in a new series.

The Journey:

Interstate 75 North to 275 around Cincinnati. It surprised me that we made Indiana before Ohio, then back to Indiana. From there, Interstate 74; Rushville Exit to State Road 3, 40 West to 109. We hit some other roads with other numbers and other directions.

And the names made me laugh. Whitewater Forest. Treaty. There were so many names I cannot now remember them all. And I laughed out loud as I read the names and made comments in my head, though sometimes out loud. The laughter, I think, pushed away the memories of other trips to other places with other people. And the miles accented the memories that pinged around in my head, rushed up from my heart.

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The first drive I took all by myself up to Indiana – how much of it I remember … how much of it, I forget.

I took pictures of the welcome signs for each state. Actually pulled the car to the shoulder and focused my camera against the dust and wind and took those pictures. I made mental notes of roads and names and foreign things. And I can remember the excitement I felt; the giddy anticipation of new things. That was when I had a great deal of hope and belief in happily ever after. Now that has changed. I am no longer that innocent girl.

And, yet, the hope still kindles; still waits. I am certain that not all roads lead to something sad and poor. If they did … well, then, what would be the point? Or, perhaps, they do and it is up to us to make them happy and sweet – the roads.

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And the roads we travel shape us, though we shaped the roads at first. We chose which rocks to move; which streams to stop and drink from along the way; which road cuts to make; hills to crest; valleys to traverse.

Even today I consider that the roads I travel now once held the wheels of wagons and those wagons held eager and fresh faces that turned to dust. One day, I, too, will turn to dust. But not just yet. You see, this journey along foreign roads with foreign names is something new and fresh and promising. A cautious heart I do hold within my breast, if only to keep it safe from the roads….