Alan ParkerMr. TomasovitchEnglish 131-7326 May 2015I have always looked forward to getting away from the quiet empty house of no voices but my own and the sound of the cars driving by outside. It is an extremely joyous time when I have the opportunity to leave this empty nest of a shelter here in Michigan. Each year for the past six years I have made that long monotonous drive from Michigan to see my lovely wife and daughter in Connecticut. As I leave the state of Michigan at the darkest hours of the early morning my excitement level is that of a little kid on Christmas day. When I remind myself of the journey and repetitive rest areas on the turnpike, I know I am in Ohio when the odoriferous smell of sulfur is in the air. The headlights coming towards me are like flashlights looking for their way through the woods all going somewhere that I am not. I always look for that one thing that might seem out of place to make it just a little more exciting than watching paint dry on a wall, unfortunately there is nothing. 0nce I begin approaching the winding roads and deep valleys of the Cuyahoga River Valley I know that I am almost to the stretch of road that I dread more than the drilling of cavities at the dentist. I have entered the hills that are black as night and full of coal, the turnpike through the state of Pennsylvania. It feels as though I have been on the road longer than the concrete that was placed there and the tunnel has no light at the end. Up and down, up and down it feels like a roller coaster that I just passed in Ohio too bad it is only the halfway point through Pennsylvania. Finally it looks like something has changed and it has, large pieces of candy corn have decided to join the travels and slowed me to one lane. The rollercoaster ride has returned and the traffic barrels have left as I enter the radio hell part of the trip. The Poconos of Pennsylvania tower above the road I travel like I was in the bottom of an empty bucket, blocking the sun that is trying to freshen me up. Before I know it I have entered what seems to be a sugar laced branch with rows of ants eating there sweet nectar and the New Jersey State troopers flinging them off one by one. It is at the point I realize that I am almost there, the signs for New Haven and I-95 are straight ahead. I stop for gas and I smell what some may think is a sewer but I know as low tide along the Long Island Sound. The pot holes are gone and the traffic is gridlock along the largest mouse trap pointing me toward the Route 9 exit. As I make that sweeping curve onto Route 9 I see the sun in my eyes and my final exit ahead. Driving through town nothing has changed, like an old friend it has remained loyal. I head up the hill like I have no strength left but I know at the end my present awaits like the one for the child on Christmas day. I park out front of the house and here she comes running outside, my present my daughter my bride.