Over the weekend I returned to the area where I grew up, country squares (one
mile by one mile), flat fields of wheat and corn, and long roads, like gigantic
yard sticks of asphalt or dirt drawn at precise intervals across the gridded landscape. Roads that
neither curve very often nor change pitch to accommodate hills so slight, so
gradual as to be almost imperceptible. Western Isabella County appeared
especially flat to me on this visit.

We occupied most of the time before and after the anniversary celebration at
D.’s brother’s house. An idyllic two-story farm house, it stands on a lot at the
edge of a corn field, near a barn. The road is gravel. Cell phone
signals are intermittent. Only two
neighboring houses are visible, and those are at a fair distance, mere specks on
the horizon at maybe
half-a-mile. My nieces and nephews (the fifteen of them on D.’s side of the
family) played in the pool, bounced on a trampoline, and played various yard
games–badminton, horseshoes, and bolo toss
(ladderball). Here, nephew K., Ph., brother-in-law E. (from Colo.), and
father-in-law D. were throwing a couple of games of bolo toss.