A Field of Dreams

We drove down the two-lane state roads and discovered a field of dreams. Corn and big farm houses with front porches and swings.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, this is Indiana."

"I could have sworn this was heaven."

"Is there a heaven?"

"Oh, yes. It's the place where dreams come true."

"Maybe this is heaven."

It wouldn't take much to get me to move back to a small town where I could leave my home unlocked and my keys in my car. Maybe a variation on the old saw is more true than I ever imagined. You can take the boy out from the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the boy.

I can see myself sitting on the swing with my wife and daughter watching the lightning bugs and listening to the music of the night.

We could ride bikes for hours on country roads. Stop and climb a tree, or two. Wade in a creek underneath a covered bridge.

Maybe for lunch we'd have some cold fried chicken and handmade potato salad. Enjoy some watermelon or homemade ice cream. And then lay underneath an apple tree and dream.

Later we could pick some apples. We wouldn't need a ladder. The limbs almost touch the ground because there are so many huge red delicious apples hanging from each branch.

You could make a pie. I don't know which is better, the flaky, buttery crust or the cinnamoney, gooey sauced apples.

"Could I have just a little more ice cream with my pie?" you ask.

"Of course you can," I say.

And it will be as though we dipped ourselves in magic waters. And the memories will be so thick we'll have to brush them away from our faces.

People will come. People will most definitely come. They won't even know why.

"Do you mind if we look around?"

"Not at all. It's just $20 per person."

And they will hand over the money without even thinking. For it is money they have and peace they lack.

In a few hours I will step back again through time. I'll see places I haven't seen in years and embrace friends I haven't known in decades. And together we will build a field of dreams where we can visit—anytime.

Countdown

T-minus 170 hours 44 minutes (depending on your time zone) until we meet at the Streamliner!

Sorry, I just can't bring myself to add the "2" and I can't believe they tore down the original restaurant that some of us worked in. But no matter what it's called or where it's located, next week we'll step back in time.

I'm more eager than ever to see so many of you from the RHS class of 1969. We have so much to talk about. So many memories, so little time. And so much of life to catch up on. I suspect we'll laugh and cry and maybe do both almost at the same time.

And we won't have enough time to share all of our hopes and dreams. So, my intention is that we won't lose touch with each other as much as we have over the past forty years. I also hope we can continue the search and reconnect with those we haven't located yet.

My plan now is that this blog will remain active as one more means of communication.