Every country road leads to a memory.

I'm finding myself in a time warp. I'm not there (Florida) and I'm not here (Indiana). I'm floating somewhere back in childhood.

It's fifth grade as I pass by the corner with the little white farm house and huge, brown silo in the back. It's Mrs. Coy's house. It's the house where we bought our eggs - white or brown and sometimes still warm since they had come directly from the chickens in the backyard. She left them on her screened-in porch. We went in, made our choice and participated in the 'honor system' as we dropped our 50 cents into the basket.

It's a crossroad named 75W and I'm in high school. Socially immature and inept, I find myself one night on this dark road where teens park to 'makeout'. The road's infamous reputation was alive and well even during my dad's high school years. I recall the awkwardness and laughter as my dad described the night he got busted by the local police, doing his thing with his girl. I recall with horror and laughter, the night some guy tried to do his thing with me on that road. I cried. He cringed. My maiden name was Limp. It was an appropriate name for his ride home, I'm sure. Did I make up for lost time after that? Here, my memory gets fuzzy. Ha.

Two-lane roads. I've forgotten how to us the passing lane which is essential in rural areas. Farmers drive big machinery. They move slowly. As I try not to tailgate the combine in front of me, I realize I am passing 'the barn.' It's red and most importantly, it's round. Each time we passed it, Dad never failed to tell us the story. The story about the man who went crazy in there. He couldn't find a corner to pee in. I can hear Dad's laughter as if it was yesterday and not almost 50 years ago.

I met a fellow Hoosier recently when I was visiting in Texas. He was familiar with the 'S curve' in our county. I never doubted that it's a small world, but he knew about the 'S curve' ? Yep. I drove the S curve yesterday.  Other than being a dangerous road, it holds a special memory. It's the spot where Dad released our wild rabbits. We raised five babies when their mother was killed by the blades of our lawnmower. We fed them with eyedroppers. And despite the naysayers who said you'll never keep them alive, they lived and thrived. Dad released them into the field by the curve when he thought they were old enough to take care of themselves. We cried until we thought we spotted them near the S curve several times after that. We decided they looked happy and healthy.

Every road. Almost every corner. They all hold a memory. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe these bits of the past will help erase the scars of the past year. Maybe they will move me forward in some strange way. Perhaps they will encourage me to finish the book I started writing nine years ago. After all, the manuscript is about this neck of the woods. It's about the events and the people that make up these memories. It's about the country roads.

Between the lines somewhere in the boonies,

me.