Heartland I Some soft summer mornings we’d take our little lane west, on what our parents once called a Sunday drive. Roads here were built for horse and carriage and meander like streams searching for a lost river. When at times the early fog takes possession of the earth, we drive more from memory than vision— secure in our obscurity. II. This morning the fog is thick as Burma-Shave and I imagine an invading army padding silently over the ridge on elephants and camels to await the blooding of the sun. But here in the heartland, we’ve little left to defend. The young and the able long for more than mastering the s-curves down Shawnee Ridge and $7.50 an hour at Burger Den downtown. They seem to know from birth that all our roads lead only to somewhere else.