Although I live in a large city, the phrase that comes out of my mouth most is, “There is nothing to do.” I, like most people, seem to think I have to travel to Chicago, St. Louis or Bora Bora to find something to do. I thought a detour had to be something everyone would find interesting, when actually, it just has to mean something to the explorer.

I got in my little blue Pontiac Sunfire to run errands, but when I finished I decided I wasn’t ready to go home. I wasn’t sure where I was going, and I didn’t care. I got on the highway and started toward my grandparents’ house. I turned onto the bridge leading into their little tic-tac-toe board of a town – but instead of going right like usual, I turned left.

The road had only a few scattered houses on it, and I began to hear the crunching of gravel under the tires. I played kickball back here as a child but never took the time to care about where I was. I pulled off to the side of the road and started walking. It had been raining, so the earth was soft under the few pieces of gravel left on the road.