As we leave the noisy Interstate with its giant semis and signs that beckon one to eat here, drink here, sleep here, we drive down Route 39 toward places like Charm, Mount Hope and Winesburg.
We go into a world without cell phones, television or game boys.
Here, time stands still.
The rolling green hills stretch as far as the eye can see. Giant white barns dot the landscape, and tall windmills whirr like a small child's toy.
Giant draft horses pull plows and switch their tails, like whips, to scare away the flies. They stomp and snort as dust swirls up in clouds like smoke.
Men with wooly beards drive black buggies to the store.
Stone-faced women, in bonnets tied under their chins, watch the passing cars.
She stares at me.
I stare at her.
At the market, make-shift tables on saw horses hold home-made pies, fresh-baked bread, rolls and cookies by the score.
Hand-made baskets surround the parking lot while bright-colored quilts flap in the wind from clotheslines tied up between two buggies. The quilts have names, I am told: log cabin, flower garden and wedding ring.
Small children, boys dressed in overalls and girls in dresses, play barefoot in the fresh-cut grass. They squeal with delight as they fall and roll on the ground.
When the gentle evening falls, the clip-clop of horses hooves fills the air.
Our paths have briefly crossed, but now they return to their world, and I to mine.