There's only one place in the world that I have been going back to my whole life, and that is my Aunt Harriett's house. Today, as we drove the winding back roads that are the last legs of the forty-mile journey there from our home, I was taken by how much has changed and how much has not, both since I've been there and since I can remember.
As in most places of our ever-sprawling urban region, there has been a lot of development, and yet her area is still rural enough to maintain some farms with horses and even a few cows, along with recently mown cornfields, their golden stubble being gleaned by hundreds of crows. And there are still one-lane bridges on several of the narrow roads that lead to that ranch house on two acres just up from the lake.
It used to be that you would drive out of town and down the highway until you turned off and proceeded through the anonymous countryside until you got to her house, and so it was like its own place, separate from everywhere else. Because I know the way, I have never even thought to find that spot on a map. In fact, there's part of me that doesn't believe it would even be there if I looked.
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