You are in the middle of Wisconsin, you think.  The last 10 road signs proclaimed towns with Native American names you assume are small and very far from the highway.  You are thirsty, hungry, and you have to pee.  You exit to the billboard promise of a Pilot station: snacks, clean restrooms, Taco Johns!  You are prepared to hold your breath, squat and later be sick from a day-old, grease-filled, barely-warmed-by-light-bulbs "snack."  So, you are pleasantly surprised to walk into a laminate-floored, softly lit store.  It has a liquor section, pre-packaged salads, chilled cheese curds, smoked sausage, and an additional room - a fish store?  No, the live bait section, with eight tanks of squirming, swimming critters splashing in fresh running water.  

This is Wisconsin.  And the people ordering ahead of you speak in long o's.  And despite your meandering ways, you are just ready to be at the moms' in Minneapolis, a city, with cross streets and sidewalks and posted speeds of anything other than 65.  And finally, you reach your home cooked meal - as only Mom Benardella can make it, mmmm, and look forward to a few days of relaxing, catching up with moms and sis, and balcony sitting in the balmy Minnesota weather.

Who thought of this friends and family idea anyway?   After some good down time on the farm, my family headed to Lansing, MI to visit my sister and re-roof her house!  Now, you'd have to know my father to understand the scope.  He can't stand to not have a project, and likes things done right, so he's had his eye on Karla's faulty roof for years.  When we found four layers of asphalt shingles, nailed to each other atop a bed of cedar shakes, which barely held onto half rotted lath, my father was still not deterred.  For days, we hacked, smashed and fought to clear half the roof in order to make way for the laying down of plywood sheeting--the beginning of a modern, weatherproof, architectural look.  It was an unconventional crew--father, daughters, Fred and some of my sister's professor friends--representing a most degreed group of roofers.  We ended each day late with our muscles aching and our skin enough shades darker from roof dirt we could have passed for a new ethnicity.  And then, the un-forecasted rain began.  Then it continued.  Then it poured, adding a nightcap of tarp duty to our already overburdened routine.  We were feeling sorry for our tired muscles until the kitchen ceiling took an even worse beating from a torrential downpour.  We had a 4 AM pow-wow, placing tupperware, towels and all the pots we could get our hands on in an effort to save the laminate floor.  We finished the weekend with most of the shingles laid and the rest of the roof efficiently covered so...we could start again the next weekend!  In the spirit of untourism, we've extended our stay, we are hanging tight with our roofless sister until she can rest easy, and dry!       

The back road and small town redeemed the American road trip.  I dropped the boys off for their annual "boys weekend" in Pennsylvania (translate a weekend of ruckus among Uncles, Cousins, Nephews and Sons) and embarked on a long solo drive home, by which I mean my childhood home and now the only permanent place to call so. 

Instead of heading straight for the freeway, I took route 26, weaving along the huge Raystown lake and through various small towns.  Plush layers of green coated the view, trees draping over fields stretching into thick-grassed yards.  All morning it rained, but in the hour I spent on 26, the sun peeked out to make a vibrant, glowing display of flora and fauna.  Cutting through places such as Riddlesburg, Hopewell and Everett offered a view of small town life.  Mom and Pop restaurants, general stores, pharmacies that also sell flowers and gifts, even a bank called Hometown Bank.  Clusters of houses were sprinkled before and after each little business district. 

The highway West didn't offer as much interest and after my chin starting dropping I took a rest stop nap then loaded up on junk food, making it to the farm awake, and very glad to be out of the car!  Then, let the relaxation begin.  Farm time is great for nature walks, hammock naps, and sleeping in.  Plus, my Grandpa showed up and showed me a thing or two on my guitar.

On Monday, I took a series of back roads to do a gas station pick-up of Michael B. and Fred.  Meeting Uncle Dick just off his main thoroughfare, I grabbed a last hug from him then hauled the boys to the farm so they too could catch up on their sleep, do some fishing, and ride the four wheeler.  Next stop, Lansing, MI, mi hermana's house, where a roofing project awaits