DOWN HOME: Finding treasure just off I-35

They say love can move mountains, but for about a year, love has been moving my car—about 50 miles east.

The thoughtful citizens who planned and built Texas did many things right. But funnelling a gazillion bazillion cars and trucks a day up and down far-too-narrow Interstate 35 was not one of them.

So, for years, I've looked for excuses to travel on Highway 281 when I've driven between my home in North Texas and just about anywhere in San Antonio.

"When I get there, I'll need to take 281 anyway," I'd say, or maybe, "My meeting's on the west side of town, so I might as well take 281." Sometimes, my rationale could be downright random, personal and/or nonsensical. "It's October, and I want some barbecue, and I just polished my boots, so I might was well go via 281."

Truth is, I've always preferred riding to and from San Antonio on 281 for two basic reasons. First, driving from Dallas to San Antonio on I-35 reminds me of steering a go-cart in a demolition derby while everybody else zooms around in souped-up semi-trucks. Plus every-other driver is angry, and it's all on bad roads. Second, in contrast, 281, one of the prettiest highways in the state, snakes pastorally through the Hill Country. Sometimes, you can drive for awhile without even spotting another vehicle.

But for about a year, I've been looking for every chance I can get to roll down I-35. That's because my grandson, Ezra, lives in Buda, just south of Austin a few miles west of Texas' busiest highway. So, I route my trip east of 281 and put up with I-35.

Recently, my calendar charted four meetings in San Antonio in two days, and I couldn't wait to head south. Although I didn't arrive before Ezra's bedtime on Sunday evening, we played in the park on Monday morning. Tuesday, I had time to stop by for another play date and dinner before I headed for home while Ezra headed for a bath.

The glow of his happy smile and the echo of his tickled laughter more than compensated for the hassle of driving 240 miles in a 70-MPH traffic jam.

Years ago, when Ezra's mother, Lindsay, was just a baby, I worked with a fellow whose granchildren resided a few hours away. It seemed that, no matter his ultimate destination, all roads passed through the little northeastern Louisiana village where those grandbabies lived. I gave him a hard time back then, but now I understand.

Life is far too short and much too precious not to spend huge chunks of it with children. That was true when Ezra's Mama and Auntie M lived in our home, and it's still true, now that he's part of this big, bright, amazing world.

I-35 used to be my least-favorite highway. But now that it takes me to Ezra's door, it's as exciting as the Yellow-Brick Road.