In a small, gray S-10 Pickup, hustling down gravel roads over Iowa’s rolling hills, I had one of my experiences with time travel. In a cloud of dust, I crossed a time warp and found myself somewhere in the late 1800s. Stumbling out of my little truck, I headed toward a large, white barn. I looked for signs of life inside. Some voices could be heard coming from within, and I followed the sound until I found a young man and woman having a conversation. The woman stood there, barefoot, with a long, plain, green dress, playing with her apron strings. The man had his thumbs under his suspenders, his face hidden by a straw hat. Unnoticed, I listened for a moment, and couldn't make out a word they were saying. They spoke in a foreign tongue, but their conversation seemed quite pleasant, as laughter filled the air.
Suddenly, they saw me and the room fell silent. They looked me up and down, as if I were some kind of alien. “Is your dad around?” I asked. “He’s up at the house.” The young man answered in broken English. I left them behind, heading up toward a very large, white farm house. Everything seemed familiar; I knew I had been here, on an earlier voyage, but didn't know if those living here remembered me. Passing under spinning shadows of a windmill that clattered rhythmically...
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