Take me home, country roads

People keep asking me how I can STAND that horrible commute, and I don't know how to answer. The only thing horrible about my commute is the opportunity it provides for people to nominalize the verb "commute."

I love my commute. As far as I'm concerned, it's just about perfect: short enough to avoid tedium and long enough to allow me to relax between work and home, to think up solutions to sticky problems, or to mentally compose blog entries. Before we moved into our little house in the not-so-big-woods, my commute was about 40 minutes each way, which felt onerous; now I drive 20 minutes when conditions are just right or maybe 30 if the traffic is thick (rarely) or the weather is bad. Even during the Big Flood, when half the roads between home and office were under water, the long way around took me about an hour, which I wouldn't want to do every day but it was better than sleeping in my office.

Traffic gets bad during fall color season, when my route is crawling with elderly drivers weaving all over the road while gazing fondly at the red and orange leaves. I drive through two school zones between home and work but I leave early enough to avoid the buses; the only other holdup occurs when there's an accident or road construction, and then I'm stuck. My route follows the river pretty closely, so the only way around obstacles is under water.

The river, of course, is the best part of my commute. Sometimes in the evening I'll be so preoccupied with the detritus of the day that I don't even notice the river, but there's a certain point a little over halfway home where the road swings around this long, sweeping turn to reveal an uninterrupted stretch of river surrounded by trees, meadows, and often a stunning sunset. (I've been told that the striking orange shade is a result of pollution from the power plant upstream, but I refuse to allow that fact to destroy my pleasure.) The river washes away my worries.

Unless, of course, the weather is really bad. I learned to drive in Florida and I still get nervous on snow and ice, and my van is virtually undriveable when the road is the least bit slick--the back end is always trying to swing up to the front to say Hello. So in winter I drive my husband's car, a 1991 Honda CRX that vibrates enough to shake the fillings out of my teeth and has a lousy radio to boot. That's the one time I'm not really fond of my commute, but in those conditions I wouldn't be fond of any commute. Snow and ice are reminders of mortality, and the right place to ponder mortality is at home in front of a roaring fire.

On a day like today, though, put me behind the wheel and let me drive.