Sunday

We’ve got enough sun at 6 a.m. for miles of corn. Enough sun for half a hundred deer come to that. They move through the fields like ghosts, silent and easy. Dog and I have a heavier tread and we do our best to stick to the fenceline. Jays and Cardinals in the trees, little spots of punctuation in this morning’s leafy story. Slant of light. Long shadows. No wonder we call it Sunday.

About four weeks now until your class reunion. All of those scattered stories converging in a small Iowa town. For those of us who have been away for at best a decade there will be miles of landmarks to reassess. Court house clock. Band shell in Tyrell Park. Dams and bridges and cemetery markers. Quick peeks at whatever personal confluence of longitude and latitude we think of when we really think of home.

The last time I was back was to harass your reunion committee at the Manchester Golf Club. A pretty girl poured me way too much Scotch and I passed through that visit in a blur. If I can make it back this year I’d like a full day to leisurely reconnoiter. Not just the river as regular readers might expect, but the shady side streets I remember from my brief youth. I’d like to reconfirm the placement of substantial water towers, do a census of porch swings and vintage pick-up trucks, photograph the no doubt ruins of all my former houses.

Today Dog and I are content to reconnoiter just this fenceline. Owls booming in the deep end of the woods, one red fox disappearing behind a ridge. We’ll pause for breakfast soon above the lake and make plans to extend our day. Pushing ever forward. Miles from all the houses we call home.

Dave/IL

Hawk