There's a time machine whirring in my head that needs no dials or crystals. I shut my eyes and whoosh I’m off to tour my universe.
I am five eating sherbet nurse-brought to ease the ache where tonsils lately flared and burned.
A sheepskin's offered at the high school gym. Hands swirl pressing ink into paper that binds a home to me and me to labor.
I toss Dad a curve and it snaps in his glove. We sip Boston Coolers on the stoop. I watch a shovel of earth fall to his casket.
Checking the mirror I escape the garage steering past farms where ancestors whisper, “Welcome home, son, won’t you stay awhile? ” Glad for the offer I cannot accept, I drive on.
My machine can fast forward too and the future beckons like Odysseus’s Sirens - promising pleasures and hidden perils.
Next month’s journey to Anasazi lands is already mapped and scheduled and we are camera ready.
After some future dusk I will join the ancient ones in the past tense, but for now, undaunted by submerged rocks I advance steadily toward the Sirens’ song.
There is a time machine whirring in my head. You have one too. There is much to see – and time is dear.
Come ride with me!
June, 2006
In 1850, all of my paternal ancestors were farmers. By 1900 none of them were. My wife and I drove through 40 miles of vital agriculture today and I hated to get back to the city. Fortunately our house is about 1/4 of a mile from a field where the corn is at least 12 feet tall.