Just close your eyes and pretend, and maybe once again....

When I was a regular resident of the Mitten, on one of those long September weekends, I would get in my car and drive to the family cabin.

The steel trap that is this poor boy's mind would ease itself open with every mile from where I was to where I was going.

As the sun on a Friday night was fading, I would make a stop in town, pick up some supplies, and drive the 20 miles away from the things of man to the crossroads; take the left, drive for two miles, take the right, drive for four miles.

Full dark now. The occasional porch light peeking out from the forest that seems to come right to the roadside. I know that in the morning, as I walk these roads in the light chill of a September Mitten morning, the colors of the trees will be amazing, unforgettable.

Another crossroads. Take a left, but then, a quick left onto a two track road leading into the cedar forest.

Drive .6 miles into the dark.

As you exit the car, you are welcomed by the very best lullaby the human ear can hear; the sound of the Cedar River running it's way past the cabin. The fragrance of the cedar trees is like a time machine.....

I go into the cabin, turn on the lights, fire up the heat, light a fire in the fireplace, and open a window so that the lullaby will continue into the night. Turn on the radio to the local University station....ah, jazz.

No television. No telephone. Is this Iowa? No, it's Heaven.

Put the groceries away.

The furnishings are ancient; a conglomeration of my parents, my grandparents, and some things that were here when Mr. Groschel sold the place to my Father back in the 70's. Before this, we had the log cabin up the road a way...right next to the one owned by my Grandfather.

This road is full of my family. This road is my family tree.

I sit back in the rocking chair near the picture window. The stresses of the day, the week, the month...every hour up to this point since the last time I sat in this place...melt away.

The weekend will pass at its own pace. And for a few days in a year of many changes, I will gratefully become twelve years old again, singing songs around a campfire; listening to the voice of Harwell describing the play of the legendary Kaline as the Boys of Summer played a kids game at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull; playing endless games of Monopoly in the daylight and Ghosts in the Graveyard at night, under a shroud of a thousand thousand stars; Where the joy and tragedy of first crush plays out in glorious disaster; where the only important thing was getting to town just once to play miniature golf; sneaking off in the dark for a first kiss that came as an absolute surprise (and nothing has changed in all these years!); and as the rain fell on the windows and the Gods of Electricity withheld their bounty, finding that there was no place quite so comfortable as at that round kitchen table, and the Kerosene lamp, casting long shadows on the knotty pine walls.....

Backward, turn backward, O Time in thy flight. Make me a child again, just for tonight.....