Get Outta (or into) Dodge

Shhh, what's that sound? Ah, it's silence. Or the lack of kicking and screaming.

If anything were to mark my adulthood, it would be the striking calm in the air during an event that, for many years, passed as a minor war: the trip to Grandma's house. As a child, this bi-annual "vacation" was dreaded more than the dentist. At least a trip to Dr. Johnson's office ended quickly and there was a good chance I'd get a chocolate milkshake on the way home. Going to Dodge to visit my mom's family obliterated at least six entire days from my summer break with only the promise of--if I was lucky--watching Cartoon Network on cable in the hotel (but even that could be eclipsed by Dad's ESPN).

I didn't get it.   Most kids seemed to love visiting Granny... But what was so great about driving through miles of manured flatlands to be force-fed mashed potatoes and KFC?  My cheek was never literally pinched, but the agonizing table conversations about my ballet recitals and the inevitable "You're looking so tall!"s were enough to incite the same recoiling reaction.

Getting me in the minivan the morning of departure was like prying a feisty kitten from her hiding spot under the couch. I would claw to every last second of home--pretending to oversleep my alarm, intentionally forgetting to pack things in my suitcase, pouring an extra large bowl of cereal for breakfast… My poor mother.  I nearly reduced her to tears on more than one of those early mornings.

But not today. Today mom and dad are busy gardening in the front yard and I am packing up my own car, alone. No one is exasperatingly screaming my name from the bottom of the stairs. No one is threateningly counting down from ten. I toss my duffle into the back seat and Dad hugs me and says, "Now you know that you don't need to break the land speed record to get there, right?" And I'm off.

How can this be? How can that same little girl who would have swallowed a thumb tack to avoid this trip now be driving to there on her own accord? Can she finally smell the roses in the gale force winds of cow pies? Can she finally see the beauty in the uninterrupted horizon of colorless plains? Is she finally old enough to understand the crude (and usually racist) humor of the pre-Boomer generation? 

In 15 years Dodge hasn't exactly become more scenic and Grandma certainly hasn't converted to some sort of hipster senior citizen. In fact everything here is pretty much as uncool as ever (with the exception of my little cousins who are now teenagers and probably the epitome of "coolness").   But I'm thrilled. (Ok, that word might be a little strong--we're not quite at roller coaster status.  I'm pleased.)  There is nowhere I would rather be.