It occurs to me that I am almost the exact same age as the U.S. Interstate Highway System. I was born the year after Eisenhower convinced Congress that we needed high-speed car travel from coast to coast. I am a child of the Interstates. Highway construction has been the backbeat of my life. 

As a youth, I held out a cardboard sign and traveled between Maine and the Midwest in the cars and trucks of strangers. Later, I would move to California, start a family, visit friends and family Back East, and cross the country by car at least once every few years. I’ve commuted over the Interstates and hauled my worldly possessions over them. I’ve been from Tucson to Topsham to Tacoma. And, invariably, at the end of the exit ramp, there’s always the same intersection: gas station, fast food restaurant, store.