My car was packed and on the road. Perhaps most pleasing next to Little Nebraska itself was the drive there. Route 48 was where I first learned to drive. With no cars for miles speed limits signs were just nagging strangers. Also, I could drive with no fear of stalling out, which happened quit frequently with the manual transmission. Now on my return trip I sped, windows down, listening to the indomitable licks of Jimmy Page and unmistakable voice of Robert Plant. I could feel the western wind. Blowing. Racing. Setting the pace to Little Nebraska. I could feel it on my skin. The same sensation felt by migrants from the western expansion to the dust bowl. I passed and old Model-T Ford as I let my imagination wander.
After less than a day of driving, I arrived in Little Nebraska and checked into a residential, privately owned hotel. The reason I didn't stay in the old house is because it had been sold, sold the week after our last trip. Perhaps that was why we spent twice as much time as usual. If so, I was completely oblivious. The next day I decided to visit the house. When I came to a mini mall, I felt the deepest despair, and then just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. I guess it was just natural human progression, but that thought doesn't comfort me.
I had only one goal for this entire visit, to see the farm again. The time taken to reach it was the time I was going to stay. After seeing what had happened to the house I expected the path to the farm to be paved and leading to a now fully operational produce facility. What was there was the complete opposite. I couldn't find the path anymore. My pulse quickened to the thought that I would never learn what happened to the landscape dreams are made of. After searching for several minutes my fears were relieved when I found that, in fact, the path was just over grown with shrubbery. .
I cleared the vegetation as fasts as I could and darted down the familiar path.