Flyover People Daily News

Today’s Flyover People column as seen in The Emporia Gazette:

THE ROADS TAKEN

It was the dark side of dusk when I left Amy’s house in Lenexa.

As I backed out of my friend’s driveway, I punched “Go home” on the screen of my global positioning system, counting on that British voice I call Daniel to deliver me home, 100 miles away.

Having a GPS has made me much more willing to visit Kansas City on my own. All I need is an address, and dutiful Daniel will take my hand and lead me there. If I miss a turn, he’s as quick to correct me as my ruler-wielding sixth-grade teacher.

After wandering around in the city, no matter how lost I get on that cluster of concrete, when it’s time to go home, my electronic buddy can put me southbound on Interstate Highway 35.

Although I’m not really comfortable driving the freeways in a large city, what with all the merging and lane-changing going on at reckless speeds, I do like to drive.

Actually, I love to drive, always have — ever since I received my first driver’s license and signed my name on it with the optimistic handwriting of a teenager. Back then, those paper driver’s licenses had no photos (so, actually, yes, those were the good old days).

On my 16th birthday, my mom and I took a road trip from Pawnee Rock to Hays. Hays is where I obtained that first non-restricted driver’s license and at that moment, it was as if I had been given the keys to Kansas, rather than the keys to the occasional use of our family’s 1973 Plymouth Valiant. I was off.

I’d volunteer to run errands in Larned and Great Bend. My bicycle was left to rust and my poor dog, who had loved chasing Amy and me on our bikes, started putting on weight.

As a teenager, I never drove far — and I still seldom get more than 150 miles from home, but I do like to wander. Driving is pure freedom; every intersection is an option and all options are on the table.

As I drove home from Kansas City that evening, I sifted through the day’s events in my head. I had gone to Lenexa to have dinner with Amy in honor of her 50th birthday. I’m a year ahead of her; today is No. 51 for me, and except for a broken bone in my foot, year 5-0 turned out exceptionally well. It’s definitely a year worth celebrating, and I wanted to pass that on.

Before the trip, I had told my (slightly older) brother that I was going to visit Amy for her birthday. Because she and I had been inseparable during our youth, Leon knew good and well how old she’d be, but he responded, “Amy is 50? That can’t be. Please check your math.”

When you hit 50, that large of a number does seem hard to account for, because not all that long ago, Amy and I were barefoot little girls avoiding stickers on the sidewalks between our homes. If I could still feel the soft coating of Pawnee Rock dust on my feet, how could we possibly be this old?

Back on the interstate, I enjoyed the drive home. The blackness detached me from the landscape, from the real world, and that put me alone with my thoughts in the peaceful tunnel of night. I came upon a rolling gang of gasoline tankers. Sandwiched between them was not a place I cared to be, so I passed all four.

I replayed the conversation Amy and I had just had on her backyard deck where we had dined on Chinese take-out on a glorious evening, surrounded by the all color and warmth of April.

Our discussion covered mutual friends, and we ran down the list of her family members and mine, updating each other on their well-being.

Amy and I talked about decisions we had made: college, relationships, career options, right turns, wrong turns, how we had each ended up where we are. At 18, neither of us had any real idea about our future; we had each simply picked a direction and headed off blindly. A GPS that offered informed career choices sure would’ve been helpful back then.

But perhaps the roads we took were the right ones. Maybe life simply comes down to driving in the dark, staying out of the way of gasoline trucks, keeping one’s options open and celebrating birthdays with dear friends.

Copyright 2010 ~ Cheryl Unruh

Cheryl cities, columns