Highway 10

I'm one of those nuts who returns from an "offline" vacation and reads the daily entries of certain blogs he's missed while being offline. The Bleat is one of those - of course. Here's some good stuff from Thursday. What would you do if wife and kid took a long vacation?

my wife and child will be taking a trip with her Mom and sister in the summer, and I’ll have nine days alone.

I know exactly what I’ll do. I’m going to drive home along the old highway 10, the road that tied Fargo and Minneapolis together before the interstate was built. Small towns every 20 miles. I’ll stop whenever I want, take pictures, maybe even hole up in a small motel, drop into town, find a bar, open the laptop, and get my ass kicked for being from the city. No, that wouldn’t happen – Highway 10 is the road all the big city folk take to their cabins and resorts; they’re used to the cosmopolitans showing up Friday with their creels and creased pants.

That’s my dream, anyway. Dog in the back and the road ahead. We’ll see.

And don't miss today - the Easter trip home, memories and more:

We'd taken out some afghans the night before - one green, one blue, both knitted by my Grandmother decades ago. I'd curled up under them as a kid; they were later draped around a chair in the living room. Good as new. Can't shake 'em. Sometimes you actually get irritated at the obstinate persistence of inanimate objects; it would be simple if they'd just leave. Because here I am in my father's new house, staring at this letter my Grandma wrote in wool. You can run your hands along it and pretend you're touching her; you can imagine the day at the farm,