This post is not so much a confession as a vignette, a visual memory from my cross country trek. As my family has grown, my world has shrunk. My daily adventures are generally confined within a five mile radius from my house as public transit is hardly an ideal method of travel, and when you add three kids to the mix everything becomes more complicated. So when the wanderlust kicks in, as it often does at this time of year, I resort to musings on past adventures...

I left Winnipeg very early in the morning, not even bothering with breakfast. I remember being fascinated by the prairies. The endless succession of fields planted with all manner of grains, the brilliant yellow of the canola, the huge expanse of blue sky. However fascinating the scenery was however, hunger eventually kicked in and I began to look for breakfast.

Eventually, I came upon an appropriately marked highway exit and left the number one in search of breakfast. I drove, and drove, and drove until I began to wonder if I had misread the sign. Should I turn back? But then I noticed in the distance the shapes of buildings so I continued on my course.

I felt like I had travelled back in time about 150 years as I drove down the main (and seemingly only) street in this prairie town. The buildings were brilliantly painted and many sported false fronts, just like you see in old westerns, giving them the illusion of being a story or so taller than they actually were. There were no big box stores, no familiar chain restaurants. The only place to eat in the town was a truck stop style diner-so there I went.

The design of the diner, or perhaps lack thereof, was to resemble your grandmother's kitchen. With the addition of a few or six tables all mismatched-mine was a metal framed number with cracked green formica top, with wood panelling on the walls, paint-by-numbers artwork, and perhaps the most fascinating fixture-the lady behind the counter.

There she stood, in all her glory, chatting up a couple local farmers and the greyhound bus driver wearing a low cut black lace top, tight skirt and four inch heels. Her hair was a brassy bleached blonde, teased and hairsprayed at least four inches above the top of her head. Her makeup was heavily applied perhaps in a vain attempt to conceal her age, which must have been close to fifty.

I remember having a moment of concern about the proximity of that much hairspray so close to the heat of the grill as she flipped the pancakes for my breakfast. It was pretty much standard truck stop fare, pancakes and thick black coffee resembling battery acid. I don't remember if she called me "doll" as she poured my coffee or winked as she served me my pancakes, but it certainly would have fit in well with the character she was portraying.

Lately I find myself wondering if I went back to that nameless little town in the prairies would she still be there? Teettering a little unsteadily now on those stilettos, the brassy blonde now faded more to grey. Or would she have switched to sensible shoes? Would her wardrobe be changed to suit her surroundings? Relaxed fit pants and brightly coloured polyester tops, hair cut short and allowed to fade. Makeup and flirtatious attitude toned down to grandmotherly kindness?

I'm not sure I want to know. Perhaps that's my confession for this entry.