Home again

We saw two of these sandhill cranes 
on the golf course in Florida. Delicious with mashed potatoes.

Dear Virg,
I'm safe at home. I just want to say thanks and report on my drive.
Ideal weather conditions followed me all the way from Florida; as I pulled into my yard at 5 p.m., the last vestiges of a six-month snow cover were burning off under a direct sun. Kathleen has already collected 10 errant balls from the season's first golfers.
I truly enjoyed the nature hikes, golf and an insider's look at the Southwest Florida real estate market; Thanks for all the lovely dinners out, but none were better than the shrimp on the barbie you fixed me poolside in the lanai. The perfect rescue from a brutal Minnesota winter. I was delighted to meet and get to know Gayle. She's wonderful and good company and everything you said. Hope to see her in Minnesota this summer.
A perfect storm of snowbirds, spring breakers and ordinary folks clogged I-75 for 200 miles on my way out Saturday morning, adding two extra hours to the 26 hour drive time. "Extreme Delays" were promised on flashing signboards by the Georgia Highway Department. They delivered.
Three lanes of evacuees, pinched at one point by 24 miles of a two-lane never-ending construction project, stressed the corridor's dwindling supply of patience, gasoline and clean bathrooms.  
(Georgia does seem to have a wealth of "Adult SuperCenters." Whatever is that?)
Relief finally came, of all places, in downtown Atlanta, where 10 wide lanes on a Saturday night easily absorbed the pressure. Posted speed there is 50 mph, but the pent-up traffic accelerated to 70, whipping past the Coca Cola headquarters, leaning into the turns and dodging a swarm of crotch rockets out for a Saturday night of fun. Commuter trains passed overhead. It was 5 p.m., time for the opening tip-off of the Final Four nearby. It was all downright exhilarating. Madness. 
Passing through a calmer Tennessee in the blue twilight, I honored my neighbor, Sandy, and stopped to rest for five hours in Kentucky, then rose early to head for a town I have never seen, St. Louis, Missouri. 
My GPS lady didn't want to go there at all, persistently suggesting U-turns and numerous alternate routes through Illinois until I punched her mute button. I figured it was Sunday morning and I could take whatever downtown St. Louis could dish out. Plunging ahead, I rode I-64 into the heart of the city. Closing on the Mississippi, we clattered through a tangle of ancient freeway ramps and exits all converging piggly-wiggly on this roller-coaster Gateway to the West. 

Although there was no traffic anywhere, with all the twists and turns and busted paving, I almost missed seeing the famous Gateway Arch, but there it was, magnificent and glorious, just a bit of a disappointment after all the build up. Busch Stadium was shoehorned into a riverfront nook surrounded by ramps and concrete. The beer city lived up to its name, broad-shouldered, lots of steel and brick, very working class. 
But the Clydesdales, the brewery tour and free samples will have wait for another time, I pushed homeward on the west bank, very happy to have checked another item off the bucket list.
Thanks again, Virg, for putting an exclamation point on the end of a long, dreary winter.
Now pardon me while I enjoy Kathleen's "Welcome Home Sundae."
Your brother, Stan