We drove out of Them Hills yesterday, as my Grammy used to call the Ozark mountains long after she had left them for good. We went north, driving until the waves of rock became ripples of earth, until the tangled forests gave way to rows of corn and soy. Crossing the Missouri River on Highway 41, we went until the sky grew bigger than my no-longer-little brother can ever remember seeing it.
There are six of us packed into my mom’s Ford Explorer, almost my whole family (excepting the married brother), plus Dolly and Rascal, our mildly neurotic Jack Russell Terriers. Our ten-day tour of the Midwest is going to be an adventure, but if there is one thing my family has always done well, it’s adventuring.