Supper on the stove

Driving home from Missouri a few days ago, I traveled a stretch of highway here in Kansas that I wasn’t familiar with. From Independence Kansas to Winfield, US 160 meanders west, and meander is the right word. It takes its own sweet time as the speed limit along this 80 mile portion is 55 miles per hour.

At first, I was impatient. 55! It’s so slow you feel as though you could run down the road on two legs faster. But, the question comes loping around like a happy dog coming to greet the master: Why are you in a hurry? Why do you want to get back to the madness of living in the middle of the big city? The time it took me to drive this 80 miles at 55 miles an hour was indeed, a gift, bestowed on me by Someone who decided I needed to just take an hour or so and let it all go.

The road slopes up and down rolling hills-yes, there are hills in Kansas-and it snakes along curves. There are ranches and farms along the way, sometimes few and far between. I was traveling about sunset, and at the end of the day, the red and orange hues in the horizon guided me onward, westward.

I noticed calves and colts in pastures staying close to moms. Sheep and goats were grazing contentedly. Hawks flew above, and birds sitting on fence posts greeted me with cries of, “There she goes! There she goes!” Around the curve. Up the hill. Down the hill. And around another curve.

This sunset reminds me of times long ago, when as the sun was setting, I’d walk into the warm kitchen at home. The smell of fried potatoes would waft past me, oh, how this delicacy could soothe the soul! There was Mom standing at the stove, stirring warm, delicious things in pots and pans. The TV was on in the living room, and Walter Cronkite’s deep voice talked to me of things I didn’t understand, events which were happening way around the world in a little country he called South Vietnam. Grainy pictures on a black and white screen informed me of disturbing things far, far away from home.

But somehow, someway, I was assured by the scene of a mom cooking up fried potatoes in a warm, cheery kitchen, with a big table set to serve hungry diners. It helped make everything right in my world. If you would have stood outside my house and gazed in the window above the sink, you wouldn’t have seen anything special. No fine china, silverware, or coffee service. No linens or matching glasses. And you sure wouldn’t have seen cherub faces saying, “thanks mom”, or a father who looked like Ward Cleaver. But you would have seen the best thing that was gonna happen for me on that day - supper on the stove.