There was a Farmer's Almanac on the table next to Dad's chair in Albuquerque. When I found March, there were notations I couldn't make much sense of, and a rhyme ending with "...and a shock of snow." This I understood. I wondered when the forecast would come to pass.

Still, we've had great luck this year. Until now. The last days of March. We've been here in Sevierville, Tennessee since Friday afternoon. First we decided to stay a day longer to rest. Driving through Little Rock, Memphis, Nashville and Knoxville—each city takes its little bite of one's coping skills. (Maybe because we don't stop, explore, search for its soul?)

Saturday, snow was predicted for Sunday where we were headed in Virginia, so we stayed another day. Today, ready to leave for sure, the tardy snow falling on the road and at our destination keeps us back. On and off, rain and more rain here. So again, we're staying. And yes, I feel a little "shock of snow."They say there's more to come, at home.

The river runs beside us, unseen. There is green everywhere. The highway flowing by is full of cars, and under construction. Multi-message face-changing billboards beg attention from all sides. Helicopter tours from at least three companies hack up the sky over us with regularity. But wait—today I realize an absence of clatter. It took time to ditch the sense of alarm I feel every time they pass over. Another war-zone empathy-enlightenment experience realized in peace.

No, we're not going down the road to Gatlinburg, to Dollywood, Dolly's Stampede, the giant water park, or the Miracle Play, the dinner theater. Just sitting here. Out the door and kitchen window, we're facing home. Making arrangements inside to insure that the new snow there won't block our way into the driveway. Trying not to do all the work of moving into the house in my mind, over and over. Gathering, packing, hauling in, opening, putting away. The day will come soon enough. Except for that, I am ready.

Today, I've put up some pictures from along the way, since leaving Roswell. Some surreal days on the road. The memories fill me; wonderful times with my family, the rhythm of travel, the sometimes lonely fraternity, the sometimes peace, of RV life.

The dog walk, with the desert beyond. That amazing New Mexico light.

Outskirts of Albuquerque, heading to town.

Sunset at the RV park in Albuquerque.

Heading east into Albuquerque, the city spread before us. Dad in a house at the base of the mountains ahead.

One of my favorite RV parks, Cactus, in Tucumcari. The old motel.

Stormy evening at the Cactus RV park in Tucumcari

The tree, the strip. Old Route 66. Closed motels, abandoned homes. Sparks of life.

In the rest area, a huge semi pulled in. Two giant trees. What kind, and where to? I asked. Olive trees from California, headed for Dallas. Amazing.

Rest stop fog.

On the road. Sun, clouds, trucks.

In Texola, just across the line in Oklahoma. Walking from home to the mecca in the country: Barbeque.

Waiting in the back yard for the owner of the house full of antiques to show up, in Chandler, OK

The holy man completing the sacred ritual—aiming the dish to the heavens, searching for his reward. In Chandler, OK.
Front yard at the farm in TulsaThe horse in the back, Tulsa.
Jeanie and Bob with his horses in Arkansas.

Fellow travelers relax by the Arkansas River in Little Rock, AR as night falls.

Night, a kid skateboarding, parked with other rigs on the banks of the Arkansas River. Little Rock.
Coming into Memphis, TN

Yes, Memphis.

Jackson, TN. Spring, talking with Jay in CA. A tornado alert until 10pm. But the skies cleared well before evening. The threat gone, the little tree outside the window showing delicate green leaves.

We share the road.

Between the lines. Middle of the road...

You say there is a North Star? It guided those who came before us? Where is this star, and who will tell me of it?