Migrations

Dear You,

These past two days I was part of the caravan moving south with the changing season. Thousands of us were funneling our way through the mountains and along the rivers from the Great Lakes toward the Gulf of Mexico. Minivans, fifth-wheelers, RVs of many colors filling the lanes of I-79 in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, I-77 and I-26 in Virginia, I-95 through the Carolina and into Georgia before diverging for the coasts of Florida. The faces I scanned at roadside rests, fueling stations and restaurant tables were themselves topographical maps -- crenellations of age, some as craggy as the hills I saw outside my car window.

Ahhh, those hills. In late October, with cooler air and shortened days, the trees were in such splendor it made me wish I were a painter -- or at least a poet -- if only to capture them before the frosts turn them to drab and joyless stalks. Now, dressed like Joseph, they were indeed worth my envy.

The autumn of one's life can -- should! -- be so exuberant. Creation seems to have demanded that the stage before the finish should be a bursting forth of beauty and bounty. The sap of Spring and sun of Summer deserve no less. What had me wondering, then, was why so many of my fellow travelers on these highways looked so deflated . . . tired and unhappy and, well, old.