Dreaming of a Road Trip

It’s that time of year,

deep-buried by the snow,

I glance at my map,

and plan where to go…

I have a map in one hand, a cold glass of ginger beer in another. It’s about 14 degrees (farenheight- however the heck you spell it- not celsius) outside, cold enough to freeze your appendage to a slick parking lot…if you accidentally fell down…and the snow keeps coming.

It’s evenings like these when I long for the beach, long for the open road, long for the warm wind brushing my hair back…the summer sun still above bedline, lingering to hear more craic, more culture, and watch me cross more contour lines…before I spend another night sleeping under the stars or under the sheets.

I confess to daydreaming in map-vision. I can picture those lines- those red, black, and blue highways, the ones that aren’t as straight as the bolder, wider expressways. The map transforms into pictures, and pictures into places my boots and my tail end must take me, before day’s end wags her sorry head in regret.

Sitting in my armchair, I am an adventurer. My thoughts take me forward, and sometimes, they even take me back somewhere.

I have traveled along the haul roads of Ohio,

‘long back highways that never seem to end,

through cities as numerous as the hours…

and I am just getting started, my friend…

on a snow day…

A taste of ocean weather

It feels like a day to drive to the beach- the sun is high and bright, temperatures rising, and the remnants of winter’s blanket disappearing into the ground along the railroad tracks.

I am dreaming of ocean beaches, rather than mountains, as I drive past the browning grandeur of three ranges overlooking the narrow valley- sand, warmed in the summer sun…wave-driven waters- a chilling cool refreshing and invigorating, and a scene played out before me like an artist’s easel.

Yet it remains winter. And in my shell of a house, the winter-panes evoke images of blowing winter and blustery icy fingers scratching those glass-plates. And I remember, this fleeting moment, this oasis of summer-like sun, will fade with another sunset, and who knows what tomorrow will bring? For winter is as unpredictable as a dementia patient, and no matter how much we feed our dreams with visions of warmth, a winter’s tail will not wag until it’s time, when it wanders off into the sunrise of a warmer day.