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Escaping the labyrinth, looming monoliths of steel and glass, thousands jockey for position in a crowded pack, all horses blowing with monoxide flatulence. Windows closed tight, the sound of fans recycling canned air, unheard over megawatt sound systems inside the bubble. Commuters flee the city, girded tight in battle garb. A colorful noose hanging loose, my exit finally loomed ahead like freedom calling, inviting me down the  last paved road home.

Sharp right turn off worn asphalt onto a narrow dirt lane, mostly hidden by a late summer explosion of uncut green and brown. Eager wheels kicking loose stones, a tree-high cloud of dust rolling and tumbling in my rear view, Mark Knopfler and I, both cranked up, singing/shouting about MTV and color TVs.

Finally, just ahead, a rural mailbox, peeking out above tall weeds, marking the serpentine driveway that ends in my front yard. A private oasis. Turning in slowly, a sports car not designed for that rutted path, sweat soaked horses heading back to the barn. Cutting the engine, ears begin to quickly acclimate to remote woods, only the popping sounds of the cooling engine to remind me of our race to the finish.

Ruth knew when I was only moments away, Ohio the Wonder dog told her. In our country setting, that good dog barked out a profile of any vehicle coming down the road, her pitch dictating friend or foe. God help the UPS man and the meter reader. Ruthie expected me to pull in when I did, and had started running from the door of the old frame house. For some reason, I thought of the label in her cheap blue jacket that promised “As Warm as a Collie’s Fur”. An odd boast, it seemed. Lowering the front windows, a dust cloud kicked up by my sudden stop holding its shape, shifted ghost-like into the trees, hiding from sight behind the ruins of the old barn.

Like a pearl diver breaking the surface, I sucked in large gulps of air, a cedar scented breath of freedom flowing in through open windows. Ruth’s blue coat, an approaching blur, long blond hair flapping horizontal in the wind behind her. Cool Fall breezes flushed out the stale, recirculated air, as she ran up to the passenger side, jabbering with excitement.

Leaning in, her attention turned briefly to a caterpillar, scraped unscathed from the lowering window, now feeling its way along the rubber track, unaware of the staring eyes of a little girl, a giant just inches away.

It’s OK, I thought, Ruth wouldn’t hurt a fly, or you. You can live here, Mr. Caterpillar.

Planting one brown laced wingtip on the ground, Ruth scurried around the car and jumped up into my arms, jabbering again. Ohio sniffed and danced at my feet. Emmylou was singing inside the century old wood house as crickets found their voice again, singing along with their courtship songs that had been so rudely interrupted by my arrival.

Carrying precious cargo, her blond hair fanning the side of my face, everything that mattered to me was inside that old frame house we were about to enter.

Home.