Event Date: 1977–1985

Event Date: 1977–1985 Drafted: 2025-11-23

The driveway — “the lane,” as everyone called it — was more than an entrance. It was the main artery of our farmstead, a long ribbon of gravel stretching from Van Laanen Road to the heart of our world. The lane had its own moods, its own seasons.

In spring it was soft, rutted with thaw. In summer it was hot and dusty. In fall it gathered drifts of leaves. In winter it became a frozen runway.

I loved running down it.

There was something magical about the way the gravel crunched under my sneakers, the wind lifting my hair, the fields opening on both sides. If I saw Grandma’s car — the familiar shape cresting the rise — I’d sprint with everything I had, waving both arms, shouting with joy.

Sometimes Helen and I would sit on the big boulder halfway up the lane, pretending it was the captain’s seat of a starship or the lookout point of a fort. You could see nearly all of the yard from there — the barns, the playpen fence, the woods beyond.

The lane taught me scale. It taught me transition. It taught me that small distances can feel enormous when you’re young.

It was the first road I memorized. The first path I knew by heart.

And decades later, I still dream about running down that gravel ribbon — not to get anywhere, but because it felt like the purest expression of freedom.