An American Summer (1) During my driving she would curl up in the passenger seat, cozy and affectionately. I had to look at her, always – the day’s light wrapping her like a blanket; she had a bold freshness and I was glad to be traveling with her. Mostly, America’s roads are good. It was not difficult to feel the pulling of rubber beneath us and we didn’t tire of observing. What wasn’t present is the darkness that is perhaps implied in our fictional writings reflecting the adventure. There was the intention, or desire, for a radical experience – a serious – experience but the whimsical was contagious. The memory of it now is vast and searchable, like a period more than a moment. In the stories, darkness is used to illuminate meaning; and unfortunately for me, meaning is necessary. The actual trip was a personal experience for my wife and I and all meaning is therefore relevant only for the two of us. On Sunday 6-6-99 we rode the D train into Brooklyn intent on paying, in total, in cash, for the white, 1992 Buick Regal at Raben Auto, went shopping for some new summer clothes at various boutiques, and met Ryan B. for dinner: vegetarian Indian. The following day we returned to Brooklyn picking up our Buick, paper work now complete, purchased an analog/digital cellular phone, gave Ryan B. a birthday card and picked up our smoke, before running other necessary, preparatory errands. The day before departing we did laundry, packed, put a hold on our mail at the post office, and visited a memory at Montefiore Cemetery in Queens. Finally, when we were physically ready and psychologically desperate to leave, we’re off. Late afternoon 6-9-99, driving at last, with enthusiasm to get away from the traffic and into areas where the road is flanked by trees or cut bedrock and where, in the evenings, we are weary of deer. The driving begins as expected; tight, stifling congestion and foul words exchanged, as we exit the motorists’ anarchy of Washington Heights at 180th St. The last exit in New York yawns its hackneyed message, and we begin our traveling well behind schedule. Across the George Washington Bridge, and into New Jersey, we travel in thick urban residual until reaching the state of Pennsylvania. There, just before PA, where the ‘real America’ begins, tension culminates in twisting curves and crunched hills, which advance us through the Delaware Water Gap exits, like water quickening through narrowing bends. Then suddenly all tension and the lingering burden of a massive populace is lifted. We first stopped at The Crossings outlet mall in Pennsylvania to purchase a suit for myself; I was glad to find something quickly. He and I have been conversing. After the initial hour of departure we loosen up and the frumpy curves of the roadway seem more like an amusement ride. You needn’t strain to see anything here. After four hours, between exits 27 & 26 on interstate 80, a dynamited-flat mountainside rises from behind the bending roadway, we named it Big Bertha for its quick and dominating rise, its slate gray face unchanged to an innocent eye and towering over us with the confidence of time. I wonder if this state is a constant, if in my old age I will say that some things never change, and be envious of her station long after I have passed. Our first day of driving culminated at a Super 8 on the border of Pennsylvania and Ohio. We chose to stop at this location because of a large antique mall and flea market, Valley View, nearby. We shopped in the late morning, then drove on towards family in Detroit for the wedding of Samuel’s cousin. Now driving 85-90 mph, fast for us. I am not concerned and she is comfortable, smoking her dugout and playing with the radio. The motor burns us west on 80. I had to ‘snap back’ into driving; the speed would accelerate, slowly without my feeling it, and I would ride the acceleration into a near trance. The car would bounce at those higher speeds, as if we were flying, occasionally unsettling our stomachs. When I focus on driving the view from my window is diminished. I notice the windows and frame of the car, and other obstructions. When driving becomes meditative the windows cease to be and the driving is panoramic, like we were traveling through space. I loved to look at my companion at these times, isolated and soaring together through this vastness. Over a series of soft, lengthy hills a massive flag struck at the sky. She was quickly impressed and brought it to my attention. The 30’ x 50’ flag stood proud outside of a small firework shop snug inside the arms of Ohio. We had just left the ‘real America’ of Pennsylvania and met now with Ohio’s, first line of serious resistance. The flags size, grossly distorted by the puny gates of its compound, lent testament to our nation’s glory as drivers in need of a Rebeccariotic boost were cured of all ailments concerning the political or national varieties. To compound the scene, the green road sign in front of us read: Main Street 1/4 mile "Quick, get a photo of that flag." She rummages through her bag. No camera, no picture. "I couldn’t get the camera in time." "Ah, don’t worry about it. Too many photos are clutter." We had traveled 50 or so miles into Ohio; the land was flat and not very attractive. The din of early suburban flattered no one. The horizon is vast off exit 5 of the Ohio turnpike. We stood in the parking lot of the Traveler’s Lodge, laughing about the space, and taking a series of photographs, meant to appear as a panorama. We joked more, later at night, about the space; an expanse of pure cosmos save this remote truckers’ oasis, "Shower number one-nine-one is now ready." Sang out over loud speakers, someone was excited to bathe. In the small waiting room, which was brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs, looking like a factory cafeteria, there were men and some women waiting with tickets as if at the deli. It could have been a hospital, with the melded chair rows and fake plants; most eyes were on the television, which was rambling. "Shower number one-nine-four is being cleaned. Shower number one-eight-six, is now ready. . ." I loved being on the road and was attracted to the truckers’ subculture; the mobility, ruggedness, and generic nightlife in the midst of expansive landscapes. It was great to admire the night’s sky in places such as these. We were also afraid. I reminisced on adventures like these in my youth. The space is good; I had to reiterate. In the city empty space is a signal of danger – a dark ally, a secluded park – but out here, space is yours. We lodged at the Knight’s Inn, near a Flying J truck stop, in a flat, farmland stretch of middle Ohio. The car was packed with almost everything we could need, filling the trunk and backseat. We had, in the backseat, a small charcoal grill and a green Coleman cooler usually filled with meat and chicken. In the trunk a blue travel bag and a red, green, and yellow plastic folding crate were filled with utensils and necessities, such as a knife, cutting board, sRebeccaula, tongs, a serving spoon, plastic forks, spoons, and knives, a can opener, salt, and pepper, olive oil, ketchup, and barbecue sauce. There were matches, and a large citronella candle, bags of chulent beans, and the crock pot, travel size Shabbos candles, an havdalah candle, and bottle of whole cloves, hickory smoking chips, plastic baggies, paper towels, disposable Gladware containers, dish soap, sponge, and aluminum foil. We had a round red ball, which had been a gift from my mother, which opened up into an entire set of two sizes of plates, cereal bowls, cups, and two large mixing/salad bowls. We brought along a blanket (binkie) for when we were chilly, extra towels, and very few clothes. We also had safety equipment such as a flashlight and flares. Our fishing equipment, acquired along the way, included poles, tackle box, minnow net, live-well, and a small net. We kept a cardboard box to fill with our acquired treasures from antique shops and family. A small box on the floor of the backseat held our Super 8 guide book, a box of tissues, extra pens and paper, and other small scraps of paper with unimportant information. I kept my backpack in the front seat with our journal, phonebook, cellular phone, Tums, and other daily necessities such as pens, stamps, and my checkbook. Our always-handy Rand McNally’s atlas was on the floor in the front passenger seat. We packed a few tapes to enjoy including ABBA, Bean, Howling Wolf, the old 1960’s songs from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, a Dizzy Riff mix, and another Stones/Floyd mix. We bought an ACDC tape for one dollar at a flee market that was in a garage of an old gas station. Samuel played it loud. We mainly enjoyed local radio, when we could find a station. They always played songs that would never be played on the radio in New York City. We also conversed a lot while we drove. On Friday 6-11-99 morning we arrived in Livonia, Michigan and unpacked at our host’s home. There were places for us in the middle west and south. My relatives span the globe like a network of neurons receiving information via messengers and sustaining our closeness with worrisome rhetoric. We then made a quick stop at the rehearsal dinner of the Silver family wedding we were planning to attend, and then spent Shabbos with a young couple, who are friends of the wedding party’s family. Saturday night we stopped by the pre-wedding party at Samuel’s father’s cousin’s house, Dr. Bob and Barbara Silver. The actual wedding was on Sunday 6-13-99 evening, after the pre-wedding Sunday brunch. We had some time to kill between the two events and stopped at a local art festival in West Bloomfield. The art was kitsch and overpriced, but we picked up a few free Hallmark cards, which we used as thank-you notes during the trip. At 5:00 PM we headed for the wedding. After the service we met up with Samuel’s brother and cousins, as well as aunts, uncles and the extended family. It was nice to be among our blood. The jokes were dirty and the bar was open. Samuel turned out, by some accident, to be the designated driver. We were all going back to Samuel’s cousin Ryan’s house. He bought their grandmother’s home after she had passed away. Samuel insisted that we drive his brother to Bubby’s house. We still could not help but call it that despite it being recently sold to Ryan. Out in the mid-west driving intoxicated was not seen as a big deal, but we New Yorkers, used to the safety and convenience of the trains, were not yet accustomed to the laid back and spacious atmosphere of the mid-west. Samuel and I shared a couch in the basement, while Samuel’s brother, Benjie, and his company slept on two couches upstairs. It was fairly uncomfortable, but just being in Bubby’s house made up for it. Not too much had been changed since the time Samuel had been building forts in the backyard and conversing with his playmates through the laundry shoot. Early the next morning 6-14-99 (sharing a couch did not make for a late morning), after saying goodbye to Benjie who had to return to Illinois, Samuel and I headed out for some errands. The first stop was to visit Samuel’s father’s grave. A headstone had just been put up a few months ago, since neither Samuel nor his brother had had enough money to erect it. We said Tehillim, visited his grandmother’s grave, and left to go buy kosher meat for a barbecue later in the afternoon with his cousins. We were usually good at following directions, and Samuel had a good memory of his way around; he used to take family trips to Michigan as a child. That day though we made a wrong turn, and being unfamiliar with the area, drove on for about an hour looking for a particular street. Finally the road ceased being a paved road and became a dirt road; this convinced us that we had taken a wrong turn. At that point, we asked for directions again, and returned in the opposite direction for an hour and a half before missing an exit and winding up in Pontiac, Michigan. The roads were winding and my stomach was upset. We stopped for lunch at a gas station’s Subway. The butcher store we were looking for was only about ten minutes away from where we had taken the initial wrong turn. We headed back for the house, as it was already close to dinnertime. On the way back we stopped at the dry cleaning store that his Aunt Rina works at and schmoozed with her for a short while since she had to work that evening and would not be at the barbecue. We made some steak and hot dogs and some grilled vegetables. We hung out with Samuel’s two nutty cousins; Nordic Jews, that’s what they call themselves. They have been instilled with their father’s work ethic. Ryan, the owner of the house, owns a Dodge Stealth, drives a new Oldsmobile, has a high-end security position at the Detroit Federal Reserve, and delivers pizzas on weekday evenings and weekends. Eric, with his super high grade-point-average is the pizza place manager and lives at home with his parents. Conversations and recollections were good. Samuel and I slept on a couch of our own that night, for comfort’s sake. The next day we barbecued lunch, and seemed to have trouble motivating ourselves to leave. He and I began playing in the house; there are so many doors, four entrances in and out of the kitchen, sliding doors, a bathroom with two entranceways, linking it to the bedroom. I could run around all day as long as he was chasing me or I was chasing him. One last shout down the laundry shoot and we had to go, we were expected for dinner at another aunt and uncle’s home. Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Jake’s home was further out in the suburbs, in a well-manicured subdivision. When we arrived, Aunt Rebecca had just returned from work and Uncle Jake was not home yet, so Samuel and I, finding a baseball, plastic bat, and a catcher’s glove in the garage, headed outside for an afternoon toss. This was so foreign to me, a life-long city dweller, never even having a backyard. I enjoyed playing, taking a run through a sprinkler, walking barefoot on the grass, having a sandal full of shit. It was my father’s birthday that day and I had mailed him a card. At dinner cousin Amy, her husband Gerard, and their new son Wilhelm, joined us. Uncle Jake, the American history professor and University of Michigan alumnus and devotee, suggested a Tiger’s game for tomorrow, as this was Tiger Stadiums last year. Samuel had a little gray Detroit Tigers tee shirt as a child and fondly recollected adventures here with his father. The ballpark was going to be torn down at the end of the season. The Tigers lost seven to one to the Mariners 6-16-99. Aunt Rebecca was babysitting Heather’s son Jude that night, and we all watched his favorite toy-train video. We left the following day 6-17-99, not wanting to overstay our visit and eager to move on with our road trip. Leaving Michigan was surprisingly difficult; there were so many comfortable, deep roots and childhood sentiment in Livonia. We drove east, stopping for dinner in Battle Creek, Michigan, to visit with a college buddy of Samuel’s father who was the CEO of a hospital in an exclusive rural town. We had Italian, with New York style prices, but he paid, and that was a great surprise. We turned south and stayed the night two hours north of Indianapolis, in a surprisingly nice Budgetel. The day was spent enjoying the roads and antique shops of Nowhere-in-particular, Northern Indiana. We were headed for a relaxing few days at Samuel’s mom’s house. We generally left our motel room in the morning at checkout time, realizing early in the trip that we were not morning travelers. We usually drove a short time before lunch, but did not wait too long before eating because when we did we ended up cranky. We would drive all afternoon, stopping at antique stores. We generally drove five to ten miles over the state’s speed limit, though Samuel would sometimes go faster. We had the radar detector and were not too concerned. We usually got off the road just after sunset in order to avoid deer, or moose in the north. Nightfall in the summer was late, and we sometimes drove longer if we needed to get somewhere specific. We never unpacked the entire car at night. I had an overnight bag with all our toiletries and some clean undergarments that we pulled out of the trunk every night. We savored the motel’s cable, watching TV until two or three in the morning. We enjoyed the cooking channel, discovery channel, animal planet, history channel, and occasionally VH1, MTV, or a movie channel. We often filled out and mailed postcards along the route to update family and friends of our travels and experiences.
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Copyright © 1999 Olef Ransom Saulles |