Cruise Control

Have the speed set at 78 mph thanks to speeding warning outside of Butte, Montana, where I was clocked going 83 mph. Montana did not even have speed limits until the last decade or two, so I was somewhat affronted. The officer was certainly kind enough to give me a warning in place of a ticket, and when he handed Rob the piece of paper he mentioned that we were free to either "frame it or throw it away." Hmmm, tough choice.

After many hours without cell service, internet connections, rest stops, even a blade of green grass  (can you say, Wyoming?) we are nearing Cheyenne and the Colorado border. If it were not for the fact that two of the finest women I know come from Wyoming I would be ready to pitch the entire state. The kids are bickering and tempers short, but it has been a glorious trip, complete with new playlist (AWOL Nation, Fall Out Boy and Grace Potter) and a catalog of gleaming memories.

We are all eager to be home, see friends, resume yoga classes and playdates, and sleep in our own beds. But driving into the highly populated area of Denver metro always comes as a shock. We get accustomed to the open spaces and broad vistas of the mountain states, where a traffic jam takes 5 extra minutes instead of 50 and a crowd at the cherry festival in Polson looks like an uncrowded morning at the Lone Tree farmer's market. Lots of bright, interesting people retire to these out-of-the way areas, folks with little ego, less to prove, and a love for God's creation. As we cross the border back to 'civilization' we blow a backward kiss and promise to rejoin them soon.