I’m sitting motionless in a long line of traffic on a two-lane highway. There’s construction up ahead. I know this because I went through the line earlier this morning. I also know this because the highway department has been working on this road since the last time the Braves made the playoffs.

It doesn’t seem to matter where you live, some piece of road near you is covered with orange and white construction barrels. It could be an exit off I-285. Atlanta roads have been under construction my entire life. Or it could be the little hamlet of Cataula, Georgia.

They started this road widening project on US 27 to help free up the growing traffic pressure going to and coming from Columbus. There’s an interstate just a couple of miles to the west of here, already. And not too far to the east, GA 85 is a major four-lane divided highway. I reckon the shakers and the movers decided we need another four lanes in the middle.

Cataula is a one-flashing-light kind of community. A handful of stores. A gas station or two where you can buy a lottery ticket if you like. Billy’s Supermarket has a good meat selection.

I suppose it’s a town. There’s a post office. But I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of Cataula having a mayor or town council. There’s not really a downtown area that I could point out to you if I had to.

Many years ago, a buddy of mine had a load of trees from his tree farm up near Luthersville that needed to be delivered to Cataula (which btw is pronounced Cuh-tall’-uh). His contract driver asked him, “Now, is that location on the north end of Cataula or the south end?” Like that was going to make a difference in his freight price on the delivery.

The man had obviously never been to Cataula in his life. What he didn’t realize is that the two ends of town are about as far apart as the north and south end of a mule.

Not only is Cataula getting a wider road, but just north of where the four-lane will end, they’re getting a new roundabout. Yes sir, the south’s new toy. You just about can’t go anywhere in the rural parts of Georgia without finding a roundabout under construction.

I don’t know exactly what they’re teaching these days in highway engineering schools, but evidently “how to build a roundabout” is a core part of the curriculum. Turin has one. Harris City has one. And now the greater metropolitan area of Cataula will have one.

To start with, the road crew assigned to the project worked on the roundabout like nobody’s business. Piles of red clay got pushed around. Retaining walls went in. A path through the woods was cut so Hwy 315 could be rerouted to connect to US 27 at a better angle. Storm drainage got installed. A base layer of crush-n-run was laid down.

It looked like we’d have us a working “new traffic pattern” within a few months.

But then the work came to a screeching halt. The big yellow machines disappeared. Poke salad, dog fennel and crab grass started to take over and has by now nearly covered the entire site. The project looks abandoned.

I have no idea when my ride up and down US 27 will ever be smooth again. I prefer this route over the interstate because I like the countryside. But at the moment there’s a huge track hoe ripping a hole across the highway to replace a storm drain for the new expansion. One lane is closed.

So, I’m waiting patiently for the line to move.

I notice along the ditch to my left two Yellow Sulphur butterflies dancing above the tops of the tall grass. A few feet further up the road, two more. There’s no surer sign of September’s arrival than the appearance of the Yellow Sulphur butterflies.

When I was a kid, we had a dirt driveway. You could call it a gravel driveway if you wanted to, but it was more red dirt than anything. And when it rained, it was muddy. The potholes would fill up with water. Big ones. We didn’t have mud puddles. We had mud holes.

In my earliest memories of Yellow Sulphur butterflies, I can see them sitting, probably standing, in a circle around one of those mud holes in the driveway. The rain was gone. The sun was out, and the day would be warm. It seems like there were a hundred of those tiny little butterflies camped out around the edge of the water.

I could never see close enough, but I reckon they were thirsty.

If I timed my leap just right, I could hit that mud hole with both feet and stir up a yellow cloud of flittering wings that would swirl around me like a tornado. And if I stood still, one might land on my hand. Most of them would rebuild the circle back around the edge of the puddle, and I’d do it all over again.

I haven’t moved yet. The line behind me is going out of sight. No sign of the pilot vehicle.

Whenever I think of my childhood, I am a little bit stunned as to how long ago that was. Just a yellow butterfly and all of a sudden, my mind turns back the pages to a time in the early 1960s.

“I’m not that old,” I think to myself.

I saw a picture of myself recently. I was working on a lamp at the kitchen counter. My head was bent down so that the top of my head showed up front and center. Marion took the picture.

I asked her, “Is my hair really than thin on top?”

I could see bare skin. Age spots. More shine than the hood of my truck.

“I didn’t photo shop it,” she said.

Sitting there in my line of vehicles, I got to thinking about the guys I went to school with. We’re not old, old yet; but we’re not spring chickens either. Most of us have buried our parents by now. Some of us have lost a sibling or two. A few of us buried a wife. Some are taking chemo, or recovering from a major rebuild of a back, or knee, or hip. Nearly all of us wear a larger sized belt.

We were boys once. Riding bikes. Playing backyard ball. Skinny dipping in the lake. Building forts. Shooting squirrels. Playing Army. Doing arm pit farts. Flying kites. Earning merit badges. Going to summer camp. Sleeping in tents. Shooting pool. Swatting ping pong balls. Listening to music. Talking about girls. Eating pizza. Shoving peanuts down the neck of a Co-Cola bottle.

Believe it or not, I haven’t lost that kid completely. I have responsibilities. I have a lot of insurance. And my feet hurt.

But I remember that kid in me. I remember the boys I grew up with. And though we are miles apart, we are still connected. I can’t think of a greater blessing.

Except maybe that this line of cars is finally moving.