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.