Thursday, August 18
Such a different feeling, going home. Andre has become iron man, driving more miles than ever per day. Beginning this morning, toll roads will be taking us home. This means we've entered a gustatory wasteland—franchise food only. The element of aimless relaxation disappears with the miles. And we've begun our initiation: we're in the heat zone now.
There are tantalizing signs along the way: roadside inns with wifi—all untouchable; women holding platters of food—hamburgers and promises of much more; Texas steakhouses—salad bar and 1lb. t-bone $12.99; antique malls, quilts, wonders of nature. The lure of exits not taken. And miles to go.
We've made it past the hell of construction and traffic outside of Chicago. Even the peaceful antidote to that is history: The Indiana Dunes State Park in Chesterton, on Lake Michigan. We're passing a semi hauling triple trailers now, and here comes another. Vehicular hyperbole. Then relief, that's over. In Alaska and western Canada, the lone vehicle seen in passing was probably a motorhome or some kind of rv. If there was traffic in the long miles between towns, it was always a parade of elephantine motorhomes, fifth wheelers, trailers and campers, with the occasional car, semi or pickup. Here at the nation's crossroads, semis and autos rule the road.
Indiana's fertile greens nourish my eyes, but briefly; we're about to enter Ohio. We've paid our toll and for a short while are released from the rest plaza monopoly of McDonalds, Hardees, Starbucks. And we're on home time now.
Through all this, our soundtrack is Outlaw Country or Road House—Andre's favorite Sirius radio stations. Throughout each song, names of performers and song titles move across a black band on the face of the receiver. Even with an extreme stretch, from my seat there's usually too much reflection to see anything. I surprise myself by the number of artists I can identify. Sometimes, when I can't, the words are so good that I have to unbuckle, get up, take off my trifocals, brace myself and lean in close to see. When the man sang I feel like a stone, thrown, to the hard rock bottom of your heart—something like that—I raced to unbuckle and get there before the song ended. Such poetry needs recognition. I might even need the cd, and the thrill of it all again. Might even need to be sure the world feels the rhythm, knows the words. Randy Travis. Hard Rock Bottom of Your Heart. At regular intervals, Dolly Parton's sweet trill rises above everything. Years ago, an astute, wonderful woman and friend declared country music her favorite. It's the most honest, she said. So the miles have passed. The scenery rolls out and then changes—in swift or subtle ways—across county or state lines; the stories being sung build up, layered in me with the land and the clouds.
I think of trips years ago. Those elegaic times driving at night. The changing aromas of the countryside riding in on hot summer air. The sky sweet with stars. Music from the radio, or hellfire sermons, the quiet voice from Chicago, sudden phrases in French or Spanish—otherworldly. An exciting kind of peace. Clacking rhythm of segmented concrete highway holding it all together. Just before the crest of that next hill, the sky glows. Then, a whole low city—electric and expansive—sparkling, quiet in the night. All that light, and more people asleep than awake in it. Then, darkness again beyond.
Such a different feeling, going home. Andre has become iron man, driving more miles than ever per day. Beginning this morning, toll roads will be taking us home. This means we've entered a gustatory wasteland—franchise food only. The element of aimless relaxation disappears with the miles. And we've begun our initiation: we're in the heat zone now.
There are tantalizing signs along the way: roadside inns with wifi—all untouchable; women holding platters of food—hamburgers and promises of much more; Texas steakhouses—salad bar and 1lb. t-bone $12.99; antique malls, quilts, wonders of nature. The lure of exits not taken. And miles to go.
We've made it past the hell of construction and traffic outside of Chicago. Even the peaceful antidote to that is history: The Indiana Dunes State Park in Chesterton, on Lake Michigan. We're passing a semi hauling triple trailers now, and here comes another. Vehicular hyperbole. Then relief, that's over. In Alaska and western Canada, the lone vehicle seen in passing was probably a motorhome or some kind of rv. If there was traffic in the long miles between towns, it was always a parade of elephantine motorhomes, fifth wheelers, trailers and campers, with the occasional car, semi or pickup. Here at the nation's crossroads, semis and autos rule the road.
Indiana's fertile greens nourish my eyes, but briefly; we're about to enter Ohio. We've paid our toll and for a short while are released from the rest plaza monopoly of McDonalds, Hardees, Starbucks. And we're on home time now.
Through all this, our soundtrack is Outlaw Country or Road House—Andre's favorite Sirius radio stations. Throughout each song, names of performers and song titles move across a black band on the face of the receiver. Even with an extreme stretch, from my seat there's usually too much reflection to see anything. I surprise myself by the number of artists I can identify. Sometimes, when I can't, the words are so good that I have to unbuckle, get up, take off my trifocals, brace myself and lean in close to see. When the man sang I feel like a stone, thrown, to the hard rock bottom of your heart—something like that—I raced to unbuckle and get there before the song ended. Such poetry needs recognition. I might even need the cd, and the thrill of it all again. Might even need to be sure the world feels the rhythm, knows the words. Randy Travis. Hard Rock Bottom of Your Heart. At regular intervals, Dolly Parton's sweet trill rises above everything. Years ago, an astute, wonderful woman and friend declared country music her favorite. It's the most honest, she said. So the miles have passed. The scenery rolls out and then changes—in swift or subtle ways—across county or state lines; the stories being sung build up, layered in me with the land and the clouds.
I think of trips years ago. Those elegaic times driving at night. The changing aromas of the countryside riding in on hot summer air. The sky sweet with stars. Music from the radio, or hellfire sermons, the quiet voice from Chicago, sudden phrases in French or Spanish—otherworldly. An exciting kind of peace. Clacking rhythm of segmented concrete highway holding it all together. Just before the crest of that next hill, the sky glows. Then, a whole low city—electric and expansive—sparkling, quiet in the night. All that light, and more people asleep than awake in it. Then, darkness again beyond.
posted by Susan at 7:24 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home