A light snow fell in Kansas City overnight, just enough to dust the grass, but not enough to stick to the pavement or to make the roads slick. I'm never particularly happy to drive on snow, but this was hardly enough snow to be even an inconvenience. I stopped on the way out of town at the UU chuch (All Souls) near the Nelson-Atkins Museum, and after a quick service, headed home.

The interstate was clear of snow and ice. Between Kansas City and Lawrence, the snow dusted the pastures lightly, not quite covering the low-growing grasses. Between Lawrence and Topeka, however, the snowfall had evidently been heavier. Snow and drifts covered the fields and pastures and only the taller clumps of grass protruded above the snow. Drifts covered rough limestone outcroppings in the roadcuts, but the roads remained clear.

I've made this drive hundreds of times in the past twenty years. In Topeka, neighborhoods have spread out along the interstates just since I've been driving this road. I have wondered at the noise that their occupants must become accustomed to. Maybe like folks who live along the shore who become less aware of the pounding surf and blowing wind, the people in these houses become unaware of the roar of vehicle traffic not two hundred feet from their back doors. I've watched the trees that line their back yards grow to provide at least a little visual and acoustic insulation against the traffic, but those evergreens surely can't mask the interstate entirely.

The back yards of these houses become very public places, and I have a sort of proprietary interest in the welfare of some of the residents, people whom I'll never know. Watching these little bi-levels, ranches, and ranches with walkout basements, I've seen the backyards sprout the yellow, orange, red, green and blue plastic Little Tykes toys of toddlers and preschoolers. Eventually, portable, kid-sized basketball goals crop up, to be replaced in a few years by sturdier poles and hoops as kids grow into basketball. And then the goals deteriorate: the colors on the backboard fade, hoops are bent and not replaced, nets disappear, poles corrode, signs that the kids have left, I guess. Pools sprout in some backyards, usually above ground in these neighborhoods. (Have I ever seen a swimmer in any of these pools? I don't remember.) Room additions go up as some households expand. On other homes, a broken window never gets repaired. New decks appear on some homes, while on others the decks fall into disrepair. Drapes in many of the windows on the interstate sides of the houses never seem to open, and they disintegrate sooner because of it probably.

There's no metaphor waiting to be discovered in any of those paragraphs. Well, there might be, but it would be a pretty heavy-handed one. Instead I present those observations as a simple record, and a fragment of one at that.

Two other items that I might have addressed but will instead reserve for a future entry: the decorated cedar on I-70, and the camels, neither of which I saw today.