You know how we sometimes refer to the middle states as the “flyover” states? Insultingly implying that these are the states you have to fly over to get where you really want to be?
Well, Delaware was always a “drive through” state for me. Just a blip on my AAA triptiks (remember those?) as my roommate Tim and I burned up 95 north on the way to Albany back in the 90s. Albany was the meeting point where he would break off for Syracuse and my folks would pick me up and bring me back to Boston for a visit. We’d meet up again a few days later, pack his old Mercury with my luggage, and head out once again south on 95 back to our lives in Orlando working for the mouse.
If I’m being completely honest, I don’t even remember driving through Delaware. I remember New York, because it’s New York. And I remember New Jersey and Pennsylvania. And Maryland. And Virginia and the Carolinas and South of the Border and Georgia. But Delaware? Nope.
And yet here is where I’ve landed. Twenty years after those drives with Tim where I barely paid attention to what was outside our car windows, I’m living in the state I never noticed before.
As my family and I continue to ease into life in what is undeniably the most rural place I’ve ever lived, I can honestly say the sunsets can’t be beat. Almost every night the four of us clamor to the windows or our deck out back to take it all in. One night this week was particularly spectacular.