Being Home

The fields on the drive home from the airport.

Recently, after nearly a week on picturesque Prince Edward Island, Canada, I returned home to the flatland.  I left behind rolling fields of clover and goldenrod and potatoes, and views of water from nearly every window of the house my brother had rented for the family.  I was a little sad to leave.

I flew in to landlocked central Illinois in the evening, and on the drive home, I marveled at the golden light on the cornfields.  The sky was dramatic--as it so often is here in the Midwest--with layers of rich gray that made me want to reach for my watercolors.

Early the next morning, before darkness had lifted, I stumbled to the bathroom still half asleep.  In the hallway, I bumped against the ironing board on my right, Marilyn's work clothes laid out on it for the day.  Touching that old ironing board, I felt a rush of affection for the ordinariness and predictability of my life. 

I was home.  And it felt good.

Beautiful even during the drought.

Marilyn stopped to show me horses she had seen on a recent drive home.

Last Friday afternoon, on the way to work, the sky seemed almost unreal--and yet very Midwestern.  (By the way, the slope leads to a bridge going over a highway; the land is still flat.)

I parked the car on campus and then had to take another photo.

I pulled over to admire the big sky while driving home from Saturday errands.

This was my view of the backyard as I ate lunch and read on the deck on one of my last days before returning to work.  A hummingbird has been visiting the zinnias quite regularly but isn't in this photo.