Why did I pick Thursdays? Maybe because four days into pacing the confines of my sixteen-hundred-square-foot home during COVID shelter-in-place each week hit some sort of internal limits. Maybe because Fridays conjured images of crowded roads, people beginning their weekends early, and crowds are a no-go during a pandemic. Maybe because I had an argument with my husband that first Thursday, and I had to escape the stifling miasma of anger recirculating with every reboot of the air conditioner.
Whatever the reason, I hit the road on June 25th. I didn't really know where I was going, only that I wanted to avoid major highways and any sort of schedule. I headed north and east, stopping to take some pictures on roads so quiet, I was often the only driver for miles.
There was such a sense of freedom in that drive; I decided to go out again, the following Thursday, heading south and west this time.
I didn't go as far on July ninth, only stopping to take in the views of Lake Georgetown. It was really warm outside!
July sixteenth was the trip on which my phone died, then came back to life. I was driving on the east side of IH35; not much to see except farmland and hay bales, but I am always drawn to wide open skies and horizons uninterrupted by buildings. I felt I owed the car a trip through the wash after these past few drives, so I treated it to a rainbow sudsing.
Last week's trip was the last Thursday drive of the summer, so I had to make it a good one. I mapped out a series of back country roads that took me to and around Canyon Lake. The clouds were spectacular that day! I got lost a couple of times...or was it just wandering?
This Thursday, I have my first leadership team meeting of the new school year. My work calendar begins next Tuesday. Thursday drives will have to wait until next summer.
I am grateful for a working car, money for gas, and the opportunity to get away. I credit these hours of focusing solely on the road and the view for maintaining some semblance of sanity, belting out songs with the radio a cathartic clearing of my lungs and my lonely worries. Here's to the wide open, healing skies of Texas.