"Field of Dreams . . " I contemplated that title often as I cruised through Iowa and my own little lightweight field of travel dreams. The phrase is poetic and useful for any number of metaphors, and I was in a hurry to reach the movie filming site, where ghosts of old baseball heroes emerged from a cornfield. It was a better metaphor than a movie, although the film was pretty good. Being in a hurry to get there by the end of the day, I had a time problem with the idea of turning off on Rte. 169 to Winterset, birthplace of my mock hero John Wayne. I would have to drive 25 miles south and back and, taking my time visiting Wayne's old house, I would lose a couple of hours at least and it might be dark by the time I got to Dyersville. So I drove on, though Dukesville was in Madison County, of covered bridges fame. I had seen better bridges in New England, I figured, and had read the book. Also, I had to be wary of bored, lonely farm women. I too am ruggedly handsome and have a bass voice. (Just kidding.) I've always had a special affinity for the Duke, since I can sound very much like him by lowering my voice a tad and affecting his accent. I unhinged a girl working in a snack shack in the Providence Airport one time. When I ordered she looked at me in surprise and said, "You sound just like John Wayne!" I put on my best imitation and said slowly, "Well that's no surprise, Missy, seein' as how we're cousins an' all . . ." She got completely unnerved and started dropping things and spilling coffee. I felt a little bad then, but what the heck, she could go home and say, "You'll never guess who I waited on today!" As I cruised along I got to reflecting on the fact that I'd probably made a mistake to ignore the Wayne home. When would I ever return to these parts? "What," I asked myself aloud, "is the rush?" The more impatient I became the more annoyed I was with myself. Too late now to go back to Winterset, and going back is no fun anyway, as any cross-country driver can tell you. I sighed heavily a number of times, but I DID reach Dyersville by about 3 p.m., and it was a fine day for a visit -- for me and about a hundred kids, many of them lined up to take a few cuts at the ball, thrown by a pitching machine. I wouldn't have time to show them how it was done back in the day. It was fun. I got a T-shirt, took a few photos and headed back to town and my motel, "a clean well-lighted place," well located and reasonably priced. Then I made my second mistake involving being in a rush: I decided against looking up a young couple and their new babies (they had triplets). We had met them in Dingle, Ireland, the previous year while the woman was preggers and we had a great time palling around with them for a while. The new mother had sent us notice about the babies' arrival, with photos, and I kicked myself for not bringing presents and looking them up late that afternoon. I could have gone to The Field the next morning, damn it. Problem was that their town was about 30 miles of winding country road from Dyersville and I simply didn't have the energy left for getting lost amid cornfields and driving another 60 or so miles at night. Instead, I sat in a sauna at the motel and tried to meditate on Being in the Now. Sweated buckets, as they say. Dinner in the one local diner was a bust. I ordered what my Texas dad always ordered, a "hot roast beef sandwich," and while I didn't exactly regret it, it only whetted my appetite for some actual food, especially barbecued steak. Headed out of town in the morning, I realized that I was going to reach Minneapolis fairly early in the day and have time to kill. WHAT, I asked myself again, was the RUSH? I could have visited the new parents, but the dad would probably have been at work, so. . . I sighed and shook my head once again at my impatience, grateful that at least I had very much enjoyed the Field of Dreams, and headed northwest to see a few of the 10,000 lakes that lie in Minnehaha, Land of Sky-Blue Waters. Actually, Wikipedia claims that there are 11,842 lakes in that sodden land.
