How many times in my life have I traveled from home, along Hwy 43 and then Hwy 81, Beloit always marking the halfway point. Taco Johns is halfway. Dad always said no stopping, Mom sometimes talked him into stopping for some junk food along the way. Now its our turn, and we travel at a different pace, never leaving early in the morning, opting to travel late at night and make it to a hotel so we can move more slowly the next morning. This time around we didn't make it to Monroe until 11:30 at night. Straight to bed. Saturday we made it to Grandpa's just in time for lunch. And that's where I saw it all playing out. My childhood memories being reenacted right in front of me.
My mom and aunts would all be in the kitchen preparing a meal, or cleaning up afterwords, laughing and talking all the time. I stepped into the kitchen with my part to prepare and my kids ran off to play with my cousins' kids. They played on the steps (no major injures!). They played upstairs (pounded away on that old organ), just like we had. The cousins, now moms, joined our mothers and aunts in that same kitchen.
Somehow, no matter how many small children are running around, there are always enough arms to hold someone who is tired or bumped her head. There's always enough room for all of us, the uncles who tease and tickle, the aunts who snuggle and catch a running toddler on the way by to steal a hug. There's always enough room.
When the day was over and we were getting ready to leave, Leah and I went upstairs to survey the mess. I said to Leah, it never changes. The house looks the same as I remember from so long ago. The same rooms, pictures on the walls, kitchen that's not quite big enough but somehow we all still fit. And Great Grandpa in the middle of it all, always drawing us back to time together.
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