There are signs on the highway in Iowa. ADOPT A HIGHWAY. Under them, a name. A family. A church. A dentist. I understood. In this country you can adopt a road. I applied. The woman at the county office said two miles, quarterly cleanup, and they would put my name on a sign. She said it like it was a small thing. A man who adopts does not visit quarterly. I go every morning. Six a.m. Two miles. Both shoulders. I bow at the sign at each end. I have named the drainage ditch. I have removed a shopping cart, a recliner, and nine hundred and four cans. I planted marigolds at mile marker 112. They were not in the plan. They are there now. Truckers have started honking. Two short. I bow. A county man came out in June. He watched for a while. "Sir, it's just quarterly." I said it was my highway. He said, "Yeah." Then he got a bag out of his truck and did the other shoulder. Last week I drove past the sign. My name is on it. Under it, someone has added, in marker, small and neat: HE MEANS IT. The county has not removed it. They say it is accurate.