Chill

There's a spot on 470 between the Grandview Triangle and Lees Summit where the temperature drops a few degrees.

I used to drive this at night on my way to and from Lone Jack, and I'd have the top down on my little Tracker, and I would anticipate this particular place - just a cool spot in the middle of the road.

This was when I would start to unwind from my life and enter that magical place. Twenty-five minutes from this spot was Ellen's kitchen - homemade bread, Irish breakfast tea, delicious homecooked meals (with love in every bite, as Spongebob would say).

I have never felt safer in my life than I felt sitting at that big wooden kitchen table. The world fell away when you entered that old farmhouse.

I miss that place immensely.

I miss the Clemantis that grew up the trellis in the garden, and the lilac bushes in the front yard, and the hand-made stepping stones leading up to the front door, and the daylilies that covered the walkway, and the blue glider on the front porch with the peeling paint. I miss the sweet smell of wood turning in the garage, the savory smell of chicken and dumplings on the stove as you walk in the front door, and the musky smell of candles burning in the living room.

The twinkle of fairy lamps greeted you in the entryway from their place on top of the piano, and you felt as though you had wandered into a nursery rhyme, but the witch in this one was good and would give you Irish breakfast tea and shortbread cookies, and then she would teach you how to make them by hand.

The ride home was the best part of the day. The top was still down, and it was dark and cool. Sarah McLachlan or Tori Amos sang from the cd player, and for a few minutes, troubles were no more.