Are We There Yet?

Six kids in a 1966 Chevy Impala station wagon en route to grandma's house. 

"Are we there yet?" comes at my mother at frequent intervals during the 3 1/2 hour trip.

Over the years, my mom developed a strategy to mitigate the questions. 

We would count off the towns we went through as we drove toward our ultimate destination: Lima.

In time, we could all recite the sequence: Bellevue - Tiffin - Findlay - Lima.

Invariably, there was always one smart guy in the bunch who would question little townlets like "Republic."

"Isn't it a town, mom? Why doesn't it count?"

"We only count the bigger towns," my mother would reply. "Republic has one flashing traffic light and about five houses. We don't count it."

And it was true, it was a blink-and-you-miss-it experience.

Growing up, I often wondered what it would be like to live in a small town, separated from large cities by miles and miles of farmland. As teenagers and young adults, we were grateful for the anonymity and diverse experiences that cities offer.

As I get nearer to the Medicare years, I wonder again if it would be nice to live in a place where folks know and care about each other. Fresh air and wide open spaces and a slower pace.

Of course, these days, the internet helps connect small towns with the bigger world, so the disparity isn't so remarkable.

On the other hand, I'm not a big fan of shooting for sport, my politics are blue and I'm a big sissy -- I'd miss my city (or what was the city before COVID).

Today's goal is to survive 2020. That's enough of a challenge these days.

Which is probably why our refrain comes back to me today:

"Are we there yet?"