Thursday was my weekly lunch with a friend. We usually meet at a cafe owned by friends of my son. My friend and I been meeting here since we each retired twelve years ago. It’s a nice little place that serves breakfast and lunch seven days a week. It’s one of three owned by the couple.

Lunch was fine. We mostly meet so I can have some social time outside of my house because I like to stay home. In fact, the maker space, lunch, and knitting at the public library provide the bulk of my social interactions.

Because it’s orange barrel spouting time, I have to take a detour to and from the cafe. I decided to go home along some of the back roads I used to travel when I lived on the nearby lake. It was interesting driving down roads I used to bike down with a toddler strapped in a seat over the rear wheel. In spite of being in the car, the distance I used to bike daily to visit a friend was farther than I remembered. Apparently, I had thought nothing of biking the ten miles from my house to theirs.

I decided to take a drive to where my former in-laws lived. I haven’t been in that area since they sold their property 40 years ago. The property consisted of a colonial style house on 15 acres between two roads. There was a shed-type building that used to house chickens and another larger shed that was used to stable a couple of horses when the kids were young. Once the kids grew up and moved away, the stable became a chicken house where cockfights were held on Saturday nights. I could have gone forever without knowing that. I’ll bet you could have as well.

The house was still there, but the 15 acres had been parceled out and there were a lot more houses. The land closest to the highway was more wooded and overgrown than when they lived over there, but I passed eight new homes before I got to the old house. There used to only be one between them and the highway. The house still looked the same. I guess whoever owned it appreciated the classic lines of the Colonial.

I didn’t stop, but seeing the house brought back memories of pheasant chicks in the garage in the early spring, disturbing holiday celebrations, and weekend trips “home” when we lived in Illinois. My father-in-law never seemed to get to hunt any of the birds he raised, although his friends frequently did. The man also had a beer distributor deliver 30 cases of beer every month. I used to find partial six packs all over the property when I took a walk. They used to wonder why their oldest son was such a drunk.

I stayed on the road and drove along, looking at all the changes in some areas and how certain other properties remained the same. The road meandered as country roads do, but I knew where I was. Eventually, the road became the road that leads to my street. All in all, it took 40 minutes longer to get home.

I’ve included a photo of the zines I’ll be selling. The Title is Insanity Shuffles because as it says on the back, “Insanity doesn’t just run in my family. It slinks, oozes, shuffles. Occasionally, it cartwheels, jumps, strides, pounces, and gavottes.” They’re essays and other items that may or may not be interesting. That’s the story and I’m sticking to it.