A few days ago I returned from a road trip that covered over three thousand miles, from my home to northern Minnesota and back. My thirteen year-old granddaughter Emma was with me.

 It was a trip that Bill and I had taken many times over the years, and that I had driven one-way a few times when our children were in their teens. Bill was always the principal driver; I was the relief pitcher, who took the wheel during the long boring stretches through western Indiana. Once in a while I drove more challenging sections, but Bill always did the tough parts, like getting through and around cities.

I thought about that as Emma and I tried to make our way through Indianapolis, where I think the motto must be “You Can’t Get There from Here.” But we did it, after heading up the wrong interstate and having to reverse ourselves. I tried to keep each day’s drive to eight hours of driving time, maximum, having learned my lesson from last summer when I drove ten hours one day.

On the return trip, we took a two day break, something that Bill and I never did. We dipped south and spent two days at the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington, patting the soft faces of many mares and geldings. In a way, the trip symbolized the strong independent person I have become. I can drive every mile, even the toughest ones.