Yesterday, we contemplated Erling Skjalgsson’s home area; today the topic is mine.

Members of my high school graduation class get together every few months to have lunch and renew our acquaintance. Today was the day. I was reluctant to go, to be honest. I have important things on my to-do list, and an old man’s limited energy. But I just got a “new” car, and I hadn’t taken her on the road yet. After considerable soul-searching, I decided I should probably get out of town. I’m glad I did.

It was almost a perfect fall day – sunny with cool temperatures. The trees had lost a lot of their leaves, but enough remained to supply a fair palette of color. Gudrid the Far-Traveled, my 2009 Toyota Rav-4, performed smoothly. I was fascinated to observe that the mileage per gallon (this is the first car I’ve ever owned that had one of those computers on the dash to tell you how efficiently you’re running) ran up above 26 – way better than my old Subaru Forester turbo – and on regular gas, rather than the Forester’s high-falutin’ premium.

It’s a nice drive, one of the prettier ones in Minnesota, I think. I only learned in the last few years that we’re located in the region called “the Driftless,” an area in southeastern Minnesota, southwestern Wisconsin, and northeastern Iowa that the glaciers overlooked for some reason. The result is a variegated landscape, un-bulldozed by nature. Small, rugged hills and valleys, even some low mesas. I think Kenyon, my home town, must be on the very edge, because when you get southwest of the metropolis, where our family farm was located, it grows pretty Great Plains-ish.

One is always tempted to say that one’s home town never changes, but it has changed, and pretty drastically. We never thought of our downtown as vibrant back in the day – and it wasn’t, compared to any city of any size. But it had all the necessary businesses, and people going about theirs. Nowadays there’s lots of empty storefronts, there are gaps in the blocks like missing teeth on a Fentanyl user, and the streets are pretty quiet.

Our turnout for lunch wasn’t stellar, but in some ways the smaller size was a benefit. Most of us could hear what the people were saying at the other end of the table.

One of my classmates had just gotten back from her first trip to Norway, and was over the moon about it. A large percentage had stories to tell about recent surgeries – a subject that never fails for people our age. Some had sad stories about their children.

There was one fellow there who’s been a puzzle to me the last couple times I’ve seen him. He insisted on buying my lunch both times (you never have to twist my arm with an offer like that, I’ll admit it openly). We were never particular friends in school, but he hints that he’s grateful to me for some reason – though I don’t recall ever doing him a favor. He’s a good guy, whatever’s on his mind. Probably has me confused with somebody else. I have one of those faces.

I was impressed with a story from one woman, a retired high school English teacher. She told us about a boy who was assigned to her class who clearly had a learning disability (though this was before we knew much about such things). “I went to the shop teacher,” she said, “and told him, ‘XXXXX just sits in my room during study hall, and he doesn’t do anything. Do you have anything for him to do?’

“And the shop teacher said, ‘Send him to me. I’ll give him something to do.’ And he brought in stuff for him to fix. And he fixed it all – wonderfully. I was happy, he was happy, everybody was happy.”

I said, loudly enough for the whole café to hear, “God bless you for that!”

One can do worse than to be on good terms with people you grew up with. My car gave no trouble on the road, I got a free meal (pretty good, too), and had some pleasant social intercourse with decent human beings. It’s the sort of thing I should do more often.