The first of the month, I went to Galena with a friend. “Oh Galena, Oh Galena,” as the old Jim Post song goes. “You’re such a pretty little riverboat town…”

Just under three hours west of Chicago, the drive lets you absorb real changes in landscape in a compressed ball of time. With city skyscrapers just a few miles behind us, we pulled away from my Lakeview neighborhood, rolled past the concrete clover leafs and suburban shopping malls of Schaumburg, sped past Rockford and Belvidere tollway exits (most notably marked by the behemoth Chrysler plant, a strangely beautiful tribute to our Midwestern blue collar legacy), then turned onto State Route 20.

It seemed as if the earth and everything spinning on our axis slowed down. Once you get onto Route 20, the flow changes to a slow and easy roller coaster ride. In my little Honda Civic, we undulated with the curves and dips in the road, wending our way through hills and valleys, skimming across black and rich farm fields, lesser known rivers and Indian effigy mounds on our way to Jo Davies County.

Galena is a quintessential “picturesque” small town built into a hill overlooking the Galena River. It’s only a few miles from the Mississippi and years ago, riverboats could turn off the Mississippi and cruise on the Galena River. With a population of only 3500, it boasts a great number of tourist attractions. It was home to Civil War General and state favorite son, Ulysses S. Grant. Its streets are lined with quaint antique stores, the studios of working artists who chose a rural lifestyle, and several successful wineries. It’s a great getaway spot.

For my travel companion, the main attraction was the chance to see bald eagles fly overhead (we saw two) and dig in the dirt for arrowheads and pottery shards from ancient Fox or Sauk villages. The conservation office in the tiny town of Elizabeth was more than helpful in supplying us with maps.

The first of March might seem like an odd time to take a road trip in Illinois. The weather is unpredictable and, in this case, the route is hilly and unpredictable too. For me, it was perfect.

We stayed at an inn that had a wood-burning fireplace, whirlpool, and fridge in the room. It seemed like the days were just starting to get longer, and, for the two days of our visit, I would enjoy cheese and wine in front of the fireplace and watch the sun set on the horizon at nearly six.

The inn was at the top of a hill, less than two miles from town. I took a special delight in noticing the seasons change right in front of our eyes. The white gazebo on the nearby pond was dusted with snow on the day we arrived. The pond was sealed with an uninterrupted crust of ice. The next day, when we left, ripples shuddered across the water. The ice had melted completely and the pond was simply a muted blue color.

Isn’t it wonderful, I thought, how the seasons change; putting up a little resistance at first, almost out of respect to what was, then surrendering to what is to come next. You could see this in the way the pond’s frozen bonnet became gentle ripples that skipped along with the breeze the following day.

Honoring the past, without withholding a heart-felt welcome for what’s to be is no small thing.