Maybe it was the buzz of the tires on the pavement or the test pattern of endless plains
on a wrap around screen bigger than any Omnimax Theater, but both seemed to blur
as America’s heartland stretched with maddening monotony in every direction.
I broke the cocoon of silence fueling my imagination for the last hundred miles or so with a chorus from the musical of the same name. “Are we there yet?”
Few refrains spoke so dearly to those special childhood memories as this particular one in this particular moment.
My dad chuckled before returning my volley. “We’ll be there when we get there.”
“We’re close to crossing the state line into Colorado,” dad added. “We can stop and stretch our legs at the welcome center if you like.”
Truth be told (after all the half-truths that got me to this point, I owe you that much) just like that, the centipedes and scarecrows disappeared and some cowboy riding for the Pony Express escorted us over the state line (oops! old habits and half-truths die hard) as Interstate 80 morphed into Interstate 70 and Colorful Colorado filled the wide screen of life flickering across the windshield.