It’s perfectly normal here in the EPHFL to begin many, many miles away. You can’t really help where or when you were born. The odds are you (or I) would never be born in the first place. The fact that we actually exist on this Pale Blue Dot defies all odds. A billion things had to happen just to allow you and I to exist. And I would call a “billion” a conservative estimate. We’re probably talking googleplex here.

For me, all of those nearly infinite pathways that led to my birth merged into one path — one “gateway” — that was my primary route to the rest of the world.

It was a pathetically narrow strip of north-south two-lane. My Grandpa called it “The Slab.” Its official name was Illinois Route 130 —

To me, Route 130 was my Gateway.

The Slab was the first bit of named road I encountered while riding in the car with my parents. Turning north would take us to where my Dad’s side of the family lived — turn south, and that was my Mom’s family. Almost all of my friends lived off of or near The Slab. I was baptized in a farm pond just a few miles east of 130.

Later, and following the consolidation of the rural county schools, Route 130 would be part of my two hour bus ride to and from school in Newton. Later still, 130 would be the highway on which I learned to drive while taking Driver’s Ed in high school. I remember the new 1976 Chevrolet Impala four-door seemed way too wide for such a narrow road. My knuckles whitened everytime I met a semi-truck in the opposing lane.

The Illinois winters were never kind to Route 130. The seasonal freeze-thaw cycle would cause the highway to buckle. Road repair crews would line the road with slathered black tar that would (temporarily) fill the gaps, but would soften and become sticky during the brutally hot summer months. A few sections were always smooth — my Dad’s 1971 Ford Galaxie 500 two-door managed to bury its horizontal speedometer somewhere south of Rose Hill…

Route 130 was also the last road I traveled when I left Illinois for college. Following 130 south to Grayville takes you to Interstate 64 where I (more than once) would turn east and travel to points beyond.

The Slab is still there. Virtually unchanged. Thankfully, it is overall, a bit wider (like me), but not so unchanged as to be unfamiliar.

All of these decades later, when I drive Route 130, and see the familiar sites — the farms, the lights, the signs, the towns — time seems to move in reverse.

Good to know The Gateway still allows me passage.