Road Trip

The alarm comes too soon. There has to be some mistake. I must’ve set it wrong or something, because I just closed my eyes a moment ago. Maybe this is a dream? Let me see,… nope, it’s time to get up. I didn’t even have a moment to dream there. Almost as if my dreams had been siphoned off to someone else. Missing the waking into a dream makes waking for real just a bit off, and I’m only managing partial disjointed thoughts, and it takes a few extra steps to get ready to ride to work. Twice I try to put my helmet on backwards – can’t wait for later in the year when I can do this with some sunlight.
Get out the door (surprisingly, not that cold this morning), grab the paper out of the holly bush (yeah, that guy’s getting a tip), and chuck it on the porch. Where it kicks up something sticking out from under the door mat. A manila envelope. That’s weird, must’ve dropped out of my bag. No, it’s got something in it. Like one of mine. I take it under the lamplight to get a better look. On the outside, it says “Economic impact of the graphite pencil in Brazil and Malaysia”. Um, yeah, handwriting looks familiar though. Maybe I'll perch on the curb here and take a look inside. On the inside, there’s a post-it that says, “Had to make it look like something uninteresting in case somebody else found it.” It’s attached to what looks like a bunch of pages torn out of my notebook. I sit down on the porch and start to read…

In response to Billings...
I hope this story doesn't make you feel like I'm trying to one-up you. Because I'm not. Your stories have been sifting through me since I began reading them, but that one stirred up a lot of remembrances for me and compelled me to give it a try. So, here goes. I'll take you to my favorite place...

Preface.
A child passes through years and years thinking that their family is the norm. My family is just like your family—the dads are the same, the moms are the same, etc. Things happen in my family just like they happen in yours and your neighbors. A child takes so many things for granted, because they don't know better. This is fact. [abrupt change in voice]
But, after some teenage years (or possibly sooner if you're more perceptive than I), I learned that my family was indeed like neither my neighbors' nor yours. There are the one’s who are with you, and the ones who have gone away. And, as I mentioned in my Dale Carnegie speech (ha) it's amazing how someone's absence impacts your life...sometimes more than those who are in it.
I have some family memories that float around that have been passed down to me. My mother's father owned and ran a gas station to earn a living (from which I have obtained my set of dishes, which was a frequent buyer incentive for his station), and he fought in World War II. There is one particular set of pictures of my brother and I (of which there are few of any of us), which shows me begging for ice-cream in one and smirking when he gives me a spoonful in the next.
I have many of my own memories of my father’s father. He used to take me on rides on the tractors at the farm. I used to like to ride with him because he let me steer, and I really liked being there with him, although I did not care for the noise the old gray tractor made. It was quite loud, indeed. He also used to let me sit with him in his chair while he watched football on his little black and white TV. I would have to get up every few minutes, so he could walk over to the utility closet and spit tobacco juice into the drum that served as his spittoon. He ate black-licorice-flavored hard candies, too. I liked the smell only because it meant that he was close by. I remember parts of his funeral—my grandma cried the whole time and some of my neighbors were there wearing black clothes. Then, just our family drove from the church to the cabin where we stood silently as the pastor blessed the leather box where the ashes of my grandpa lay until the other man dressed in black carried it across the lawn and into the woods. He was gone for a few minutes, then returned and handed the empty box to my grandma. She hugged it while she cried for a while longer. That's all I remember. I wrote a story about him that was honest and heartfelt when I was in fourth grade, and my teacher critiqued it harshly for its lack of organization and transitional logic. I was upset about that, and that made her feel bad. I think she learned a lesson that day, just like I did: Don't share personal things with strangers unless you're ready for what they might say to you afterwards. Wearing your heart on your sleeve isn't always good for the ego. So, understand that this piece pulls up some deep stuff that I don't share too often, so be kind.

Road Trip.
Since you always get to plan the trips, this time it's my turn. Maybe since we're already driving to Chicago, we could take the weekend and head up to the cabin in the 4Runner. I've always wanted to take someone from my East Coast life and show them where I came from. Plus, this truck has a sunroof. I like those. The sunlight can warm your face, and the wind won't blow my hair around too much. It's only about four hours, anyway.
"Can I drive?" you ask.
"Sure. But I have to drive up the driveway. It's tricky. It's all gravel and if you drive too fast and make any ruts in the path, Dad'11 get mad at me. He wouldn't get mad at you, but I'll just save us both the trouble."
We leave Chicago on a cool, early May morning. You know, you used to live here. It heats up quick, but in the mornings there's a chill that makes the hair on your legs stand up. You want to wear shorts, but if you do you know you'll be cold.
We stop and get gas and coffee on our way up towards I-43. Coffee's black for you and lots of vanilla cream for me. Maybe I'll sneak a cigarette in on the way there, too, since there won't be any more smoking until the weekend's over. I don't smoke in front of Dad. But, on a long car trip, there isn't anything better than coffee and cigarettes. He probably knows I smoke, but I don't let him see it and he doesn't get on my back about it. You don't smoke either, so I won't make you have to be around it while we're in the car. We could take I-41, but somehow driving closer to the lake seems nicer—even if you can't always see it. The road is flat, long, and straight. The scenery doesn't change much. Cheese billboards, motel billboards—these highways were made for billboards.
"I'm glad you're driving this part. I get road hypnosis when I drive here." I say.
"Okay. Since I'm driving that means I get to pick the music we listen to," you say.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth like my little nephew. But, I smile then, so you know that I'm not seriously annoyed. Not yet, anyway. (I write myself sounding kind of bitchy and controlling. Maybe, I'm bitchy and controlling. Hmmmm....)
"You can choose the music as long as I like it." I say.
You give me that half-smile-half-eyeroll. You know it's begun. Long car trips have a strange effect on me. I tend to pick fights in cars. Can't explain it. Probably has something to do with the boredom of being in the same spot for a long period of time. But, maybe since we're still somewhat new friends I'll be on better behavior. As long as we don't sing along to our favorite songs we'll be in good shape. People who can't sing well really get on my nerves. I'll just get it all out there. I really hate it when people sing out of tune, especially in close proximity to me. Mom says I've always hated that. I guess there's an inborn snob in me that needed a petty outlet. (Bitchy. But, honest.
“And controlling?” you offer sarcastically.
“Shut up, rabbit” I reply.
“Oh, yeah, like that’s not controlling”
“Shut up, shuttin’ up”
“You’re right; your story, your rules)
The hours pass quickly as we chat about the things we never had the time or nerve to talk about...(What? You thought I was going to ignore that elephant? Christ, it's so big now that it's starting to squish us into the corners.) Despite my propensity to pick fights, we survive and I get more and more excited as we get nearer to our destination. The town of Neewauken is old. Named after the Neewauken River (or maybe the other way around) but it's a sleepy little town with one of everything, including a Piggily Wiggily. Nice. But, the people are friendly here. They extend helpful hands to their neighbors and chat interestedly with out-of-towners. I think you'd fit in.
"They'll remember you if you ever come back here, you know. They don't know my face, but all I have to say is that I'm Bob's daughter. They'll smile and welcome us in." They're also a forgiving people. If you love nature, but lack social skills; you're still okay. Be careful, though, they're quick-witted, too. These aren't normal country folk.
We're getting closer now. I'm sitting up straight in my seat. I do that when I get excited sometimes. I'm excited to see Dad, but I'm more excited to be back in this place. I have trekked and traversed all the paths here. I've gone off the paths and found lots of treasures that kids find priceless: cool rocks, eggshells, bones, leaves, sticks, you name it—I had it (unless it was too slimey. What?! I am a girl.) I did have a cool pocketknife that Dad got me. He ordered it from L.L. Bean. I was excited to have that. Dad keeps it now, and I have a new one.
After the digression, make a left after the county zoo, over the railroad tracks, past the Trellis Inn, then the junkyard, just a little further now, and make a right onto the County Road.
"Stop." I say. You raise your eyebrows at me, asking with your expression.
"Because the driveway's just up ahead and I want to show you something first." We switch places—you walk around the front of the truck and I crawl over the seat. I move it up and you silently get into the passenger seat, watching me in an element you haven't seen. I drive up the big hill, up, up...
"My brother wiped out on his bike coming down this hill once." I just remembered Dad and Eileen telling me that. I remember things like that from time to time—memories taught, not learned. You nod, as if understanding how much a wipeout might hurt on the loose gravel on the side of the road.
As the truck crests the hill, you can see the mobile home owned by the people next door to us. They have two kids and a German shepherd named Viper. I pick out presents for Dad to give them on their birthdays.
Then the house comes into view. A classic, window clad farmhouse, white with black trim. The sun porch stretches lazily along the side of the house and the second floor bedrooms allow in the afternoon light in beautiful stripes. The sky is so big here, just like in Billings. I slow the truck down and point them out to you—the farmhouse, the machine shop, my Grandpa's workshop, the old metal building, the old dog kennel, and then a bit further to Dad's garden and his new metal building. You'd like it inside the new metal building. All the tools are in there. I have a feeling you two could talk shop for a while about a lot of things. I could leave you on the porch together with beers while I took a walk around the pond or maybe took the skiff out for a lap alone. You'd have fun talking to Dad, although your eye might wander from time to time just to see where I am.
We pull in next to the new metal building to turn around. The garden's perfect rows remind us of Arlington Cemetery. An engineer's garden—we laugh. I take a last longing look at the house. I can't go inside anymore, because Grandma sold the house and moved to Green Bay.
I put the truck in reverse and back onto the highway again. We head back down around the curve and slow down as it flattens out. The nondescript driveway sits on the left. Dad left the red gate open for us. The huge metal gate could stop a charging bull and has stopped vehicles from trespassing more than a few times. I slow the truck down and creep up the hill. The pine branches tickle the sides, and you stick your arm out the window to touch them with your fingertips as we pass by. Up to the right, straighten out, up and to the left now, and as the truck crests the hill, it looks for a split second like we're going into the drink, but at the last minute it curves back to the right, and we're safe (this used to cause anxiety for me as a youth. "It did for me just then"). I pause so you can take it all in. You look as many places as you can, and I watch you as you look. I have such pride for this place, and I want to share it with you. Forty acres of forest and a football field sized pond.
"Wow," you say.
"That's it?"
"What?"
"What do you think?"
You roll your eyes at me, "It's great. No joking." You can be sarcastic, too, sometimes, you know. I have the pen this time. I think you feel a little awkward, because you're not in control. Repeat: I have the pen this time. Ha. ("Yeah, we need to talk about that, 'cause, you know, it's unseemly to have the characters write the stories", you say. I suggest, "You might try to remember how this feels next time you're writing me." You get a bit quiet, and say, "I always hope you overlook the parts that don't suit you.")
We pull up next to the cabin and you get out and stretch. Dad's truck isn't there, so he must have run out for something—probably cheese or beer. Don't worry, the door's open. We go inside and after bathroom breaks, you have time to admire the inside of the cabin. Two bedrooms and a huge main chamber—half New England kitchen, half living room. Dad's got the woodstove burning low. Like I said before, it can still get a little chilly, especially after the sun goes down.
I'm back out the door into the porch already, grabbing boat gear, and you come up behind me and put your hand on my shoulder.
"Can you please let me be the man in this story like, once or twice? Let me carry something." I can't help but laugh at that look on your face, and I agree. I'm an independent woman, you know, I haven't had a boyfriend for over two years now—I take care of myself. But, I'll let you help me. Because I know that you like to do that. And I like it when you do.
You grab your notebook out of the truck on our way down the hill. In hand, two beers apiece (Leinenkugel Reds), one fishing pole with a rubber worm, two cushions and my jimmy-rigged kayak paddle from the raft. [By the way, did you read the part about Spike's cactus in the raft? That made me giggle.] Drop the gear on the grass, step onto the dock and together now on 3:1... 2... 3! Up, tip, and over the side of the dock as we drop the skiff in, I hop in quick before it drifts too far away. You toss me the gear and get in. You hunker down in the bottom of the boat and stretch out your legs. I sit in the back and take care of paddling for a while. You crack open a beer and take a deep breath. You smile at me and drop one hand over the side to let your fingertips slide across the water. No need for words. You breathe in my life from this place and it fills the spaces and corners that before seemed empty or unknown. You seem to understand a lot about me—you're very perceptive. I don't have to overlook very much, either.
This place is my safe place. This is where I had the most fun with Dad. He even laughs now about the time I hooked my worm in his neck when we went fishing together. That took awhile though. He didn't see the humor in it; I thought it was brilliant!
No one else but my family got in here unless they were invited, and even when the undesirables showed up they were kept a close eye on. No harm ever came to me here. This was the place where peace ruled over anger and yelling and sadness.
I hear a shrill, quick whistle and I instinctively turn my head toward the sound. I see Dad standing on the dock. He's got a beer, too. He saw us through the binoculars from inside and decided to join us for a cocktail. I turn the boat around and paddle into the dock. He pulls the end in for us, so we don't have to get our shoes wet.
Dinner comes next—steak on the grill, mushrooms and sweet onions in butter (I'll eat mushrooms only this way), salad with the works and fresh bread with garlic. After dinner, we all pick our teeth with toothpicks. Right sexy, no?
"Do you want to see what's going on down at the Barrel?" Dad asks.
"Sure," I smile. Dad wants to show us off a little to his friends. I'm the mystery daughter—they know I live out East.
"Brace yourself for an Irish car bomb at the pub. We're both gonna be getting 'em. We'll make Dad drive. You sit in the front and I'll hop in the back." I say to you.
"Why are you sitting in the back? It's really going to mess up your hair."
I grin at you as I pull my hair back and put on one of Dad's Penn State baseball caps. Off we go to the Barrel. A couple hours later, we're out, and this time I sit in the front of the cab with you two. Back to the cabin and straight to bed. You have your pick—bunk beds or we can crash on the bed Dad bought for Mom when she comes to stay. Dad sleeps on the chair with the TV on. I hope a little white noise doesn't bother you. By the way, do you snore? I hope not. It ranks right up there with singing out of tune.
You choose the big bed, and I crawl in next to you.
"Can I sleep with my head on your shoulder?" I ask.
"Well, I suppose," you say, but somehow I think you don't mind. I move Snowman out of the way, we settle in, and I'm asleep in minutes.
Morning comes slowly, rinsing the trees with a gray-white light. You wake up before me and gently roll away without waking me up. Dad's awake, too, drinking coffee out on the deck. You get your coffee and join him. He silently hands you the binoculars and points out to you the loon that's swimming on the far side of the pond. You guys have a few of hours to kill, because I won't be awake until 10 at the earliest. I think you'll be okay though, since boys have that strange way of passing time that doesn't involve a lot of talking. I'm not quite sure how you do that.
[“Do you want to take over from here?”] (Yes, I do. You've had the pen for way too long, although I like where you've gone with it. I need to get a morning workout in of some kind, so I'll take care of it for you.) [“Thanks. I'm really tired. I need to get some sleep now, or else I won't be able to finish this.”]
A little after 10, I'm finally awake.
"C'mon. We're going to get some breakfast."
I don the same baseball hat and climb into the truck. You drive this morning. We head into town, get some eggs and toast, and plan the rest of the day. We'll stick around for a while and help Dad with a couple of things he needs some help with. Then we'll head back to Chicago after dinner.
The day passes and we're on the road. I curl up in the seat next to you and close my eyes. There isn't much to say now. You've seen my favorite place, and I'm exhausted. It's tiring wearing your heart on your sleeve. You set yourself up for a big fall. But, I trust you. You're driving, after all.

That’s nice. Explains the missing dreams too. Gotta remember to keep that notebook where I can keep an eye on it. Now I better get out of here, gonna have to ride like the wind or I’m gonna be late.

New York

The day has not started well. You’ve already been up for hours, not able to get comfortable enough to sleep soundly: head pounding, with your forehead and occiput trying to out-do each other to see which can implode first; neck stiffening in response to the headache; stomach churning independently, only adding to the background nausea your neck and head are creating on their own. The sunrise was unkind. The usual warm feeling of light on the hardwood floor is replaced by an emphasis of how sore your eyelids and eyebrows are, and instead of inviting you out of bed it merely curls you more tightly into a ball under the comforter with the extra pillow hugged to your head to cushion and comfort it.
Why couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? Haven’t been sick in a long time, why today? Today was supposed to be a good day, start easy, fill with special moments, end gently. You’ve been working hard, and after a long delay, you deserve/need a day that would go perfectly. Timing! Maybe if you could just will these symptoms away for a few hours. Think, what can you come up with to bargain today for tomorrow...
Oh,... that noise,... that buzzing has got to stop! There it goes again, repeating over-excitedly,... the door buzzer? What time?... Oh God, 10:30 already?
The realization and the last of the anticipation you went to sleep with bring you to your feet too quickly. You get to the button for the front door, but then run out of energy...
Footsteps ascend the stairs two at a time. There’s a misstep, a few hard flat-footed steps, something dropped, and an under-breath curse.
I let myself in, and, drained though you are, you let out a laugh (a weak one), exhale through your nose, and the corners of your mouth turn up slightly. My cap is crooked almost to the point of falling off. My back pack is hanging from one strap at my elbow. I’ve got a coffee cup in each hand, and what must be some coffee staining the left thigh of my jeans. One of my earbuds is still in, and I’m trying not to step on the other one. I’m trying desperately to hang onto a notebook, a manila envelope, and a bouquet under the free elbow. The folded top of a paper bag is clutched in my teeth. My glasses hang precariously at the very tip of my nose. The self-aware grin I’m wearing when I first come in is gone in an instant. In the next instant, I’ve dropped or put down everything in the still-open doorway and hopped over it to where you’re still leaning against the wall at the door buzzer.
Hey, you don’t look so good.
“I’ve hoped for so long to hear you say that to me when you came to visit."
Come on Beautiful, lean on me and I’ll get you back to bed. Once you’re comfortable, I’ll try to be more of what you hoped for.
The first few steps are shaky, so you let me take you by your elbow and waist, but reluctantly, with a hint of bristling.
Hey relax, it’s me remember? Helping with difficult first steps is what I do.
You let out a sigh of resignation, put your head on my shoulder. “I’ll try to be a good patient."
Don’t even worry about it. Now come on, you can lead, lean on in.
We promenade back to your bedside (I kick the front door shut as we pass), and you flop back in. I help you get your legs in, then step away for a moment to grab your desk chair to sit alongside.
“I’m sorry, ohh,... I,... you should,..."
Shh, don’t worry about me today, we’ll just have to enjoy a visit on a smaller scale. I’m glad I’m here today. I hate to hear about your bad days when I can’t do anything to help. Leave today to me now. First thing was supposed to be a quiet breakfast and silent-pause-filled chat anyway. Back in a moment,… maybe two. I take a walk through to close the curtains – they’re light, but shade enough for you to open your eyes up comfortably, or at least more comfortably. There’s a bit of rummaging around coming from the kitchen, along with some quiet whistling. After a minute, I’m back with a tray and some extra pillows.
Let me help you sit up a bit while I set up a cushion throne for you on the bed. There, now settle in and here’s your coffee: I poured it into one of your thermal mugs. Maybe the caffeine’ll help you with your headache. How’re you doing there?
“A little better with the curtains closed."
We’ll leave them closed then, and make our whole world outta these rooms today. Now, I hope you like the coffee from the place across the street – ease into that, and I’ll try to get some other things put together for us.
“What were you whistling?"
Just the CD I was listening to on the way up on the train. You wanna hear it?
“Only if it’s better than the whistling."
See? You’re starting to perk up already. I’ll put the CD in, and you can listen to more than that one refrain over and over. The CD’s not exactly your taste, even for a girl reportedly a little more country than she’d like to think, but it’s calm enough, and the lyrics are day-dreamy.
In the background, you can still hear me bumping around in the kitchen. The water’s on, and dishes are clinking in the sink... Oh, the dishes, meant to get those done this morning, you were just too tired last night.
“You don’t have to do those, just leave them."
What? Sorry, I can’t hear you.
“Fine.”
You know, I’ve really missed that, good to hear you still care.
“I thought you said you couldn’t hear me.”
Uh, right, you caught me. I re-enter the room.
“You should know better than to try and tell me you’re not listening."
I thought maybe in your weakened condition that you might not pick that up. Here’s a selection of possibles for brunch: pan au chocolate (also from the coffee shop), a very light French toast, and some cinnamon toast.
“I don’t feel like having anything really."
That’s fine, I’ve got ‘em cut into little pieces that you can pick at as you like. Syrup’s in the saucer. You can just doze if you want. I’m going to sit here and do the puzzle while I drink my coffee and eat the larger pieces.
“No, we should go out and do something, I’ll get up and get ready..."
But I’m already standing to cut off your exit from the bed. I don’t need to go anywhere, one city’s the same as the next to me, I just wanted to spend another day with you. I glance at my hand at your forehead. I turn it over and test again with the back of my hand. Girl, you are warm, lie right back into the throne there m’lady.
It takes a while to find something to use for a cool cloth, and you tell me where to find some Tylenol (I couldn’t bring myself to go looking in the medicine cabinet without some verbal guidance).
Once we’ve got you settled, the headache has lessened, and you can close your eyes without feeling like they’re about to snap back open. You go back to just listening to the CD, and the scratching of my pen on the newspaper. Each time I pause to consider a clue, I take the cloth off your forehead and fan you with the paper. Your symptoms are settling, but your original plans for the day keep coming up, first as daydreams, then as dreams.
I can’t quite make out what you’re dreaming of as I finish the puzzle (yes, had to guess at two letters, but they look right) and clean away the brunch leftovers, but I can tell from your expression as I watch you sleep that we’re having a great time together. When you wake up, the chair’s empty, except for your coffee cup waiting. The throne has become uncomfortable, and your still a bit light-headed. The apartment is quiet. You worry for a moment, but you can still see my backpack by the doorway. I’m on the couch reading, and you’re able to sneak up on me because I’ve got my earbuds in. Your hand on my shoulder doesn’t startle me though. I just turn off the music, mark my place with my finger in the book, and make room for you to sit next to me.
Feeling better?
“A little better, not much, not enough to do anything."
Was that a shiver? "Yeah, I’m getting a chill now."
Alright, here: put on my sweatshirt, and I’ll go get the comforter, and then we can go fly a kite in the park.
“Uh, that’s not happening today."
Just leave it to me. Go ahead and zip that up, let me sit down, lean on in (whoa, that was a big shiver), and I’ll wrap the comforter around and take you kite flying.
“Mmmm, okay."
Comfy?
“Just a minute, gotta scoot over a bit."
Alright now, just close your eyes and listen...

...Oh the wind is gusting gustily,
and the trees are thrashing thrustily,
and the leaves are rustling rustily...
“Rustling rustily?"
Okay, so it’s been a long time, and I don’t remember all the words, but it seems that it may turn out to be a rather blustery day. Maybe we should go to the park and put a kite up to give us an excuse to loll around in the sun.
“That’d be a good idea if only I had a kite."
No problem, there’s one waiting in my backpack.
“Is there any extra room in there?”I could take some of my travel stuff out, why?
“I’ll see what I can think up to take along as a picnic lunch."
Yeah, that’d be good. When you’re ready we’ll get going. I need a minute or so to get the kite put together anyway.
At the park, the trees are misted over with a light lime green as their leaves are just coming out. The bulbs have all sprouted and there are sprinklings of daffodil and tulip everywhere. The breeze is steady with a few stronger gusts, but it’s warm enough if we stay in the sun. High clouds speed across the deep blue sky.
Give me a hand putting this together, won’t you? You’re better at bows and strings, so why don’t you do the string around the sides while I hold the sticks in place. Yeah, that’s a good kite shape I think. Now, I’ve got some purple moon and stars paper to put over it, trim it with my pocket knife, glue it on, tie the string on, then,... I can’t believe it,... I’m so stupid.
“What?"
I forgot to bring anything for a tail.
“Check the backpack again, I think you might find something."
No, there’s nothing I’ve got in there that would work.
“Then it’s up to me if you’re not even going to look: see? Here’s some red ribbon I brought along -- you never know when you’re going to need some."
Good thinking, and touching sentiment. Now, are you pilot or co-pilot?
“Whichever one holds the string."
Okay mademoiselle pilot, wait here and I’ll walk the kite out. When you think you’ve got enough wind behind you, just give a tug.
I go about fifty meters away and kneel down for a second to adjust the rigging and untangle the tail (that red ribbon sometimes tries to tangle me up). Then we stand, facing each other, waiting for an inspiration to blow between us. With the first gust, you give a tug, and I’m ready. The kite slips from my finger tips and takes right off into the air (in contrast to air travel, the take-off is my favorite part of kite flying). You must be an excellent pilot; I usually U-turn into the ground the first few tries. I’m walking back over by you now, grinning at our (I don’t mind taking some credit for the construction, though of course the piloting is really the most important part) success. You’re letting string out leisurely, and the sky’s taking the kite as much as you’ll let it. By the time I get back, it’s already well above the treetops. Now, I don’t intend to just stand and crane my neck to watch it, I’m gonna sit in the grass -- the grass is dry, but the ground is still cold.
“Here, take the string for a second."
You go to the backpack and pull out the blanket. How’d that get in there?
“I’ve gotten used to your forgetting it, so I just make sure to bring it myself."
You let the breeze catch the blanket to spread it out, and it settles gently to the ground. You put the backpack on the windward side to keep it down, and find a comfortable place to sit.
“Now, it’s still my turn, you’re going to have to give the string back."
But of course, here. I lie down so I can still see the kite, and pull my cap down tight to keep the sun out of my eyes. You stay seated for the rest of your turn, leaning up against the shins of my legs as I lie with my knees bent up. After another fifteen minutes or so of kite/cloud watching and daydreaming, you hand the ball of string to me and lie down yourself, using my shoulder as a pillow.
Um sure, go ahead and make yourself comfortable.
“I will.'
I always like to try and let all the string out and see how high I can get the kite to go. Tugging for a while to get it to climb, holding steady for tension to build up in the string, then letting more string out and watching it drift, then starting over again. It’s getting a little tiring trying to fly it with one hand, so I shift under you so your head’s on my chest and both hands are free.
“That’s really not as comfortable.'
Hey trying to fly a kite here.
The look you give me reminds me how selfish and stupid that must’ve sounded, even as a joke. I go back to one hand holding the string. Sorry, go on back. What’s in the backpack for lunch (I’m anxious to change subjects)
“Nice change of subjects there. There’s just simple things, some fruit, cheese, crackers, some pretzels, water, maybe a smiley cookie for people who are nice to other people."
Just tell me what I need to do to demonstrate it.
I tie the string to the backpack, and the kite seems happy to just fly itself while we have lunch. As long as we’re doing that having things magically appear from the backpack, I might as well have a bottle of wine in there – only paper cups though, sorry.
[“You know, a glass of wine doesn’t really sound that good to my stomach right now anyway." Don’t break the spell, you’re not supposed to be sick in the story...]
The kite now is just a purple dot with some red highlight in the sky. After lunch we start taking turns, one pulling down, the other winding the string back up. The ground level winds have gotten more unpredictable though, and as we bring it down the kite darts side to side as if it’s fighting to stay up. We’ve almost recovered it when a sudden cross wind crashes it into a tree, where it immediately spins and winds the string around several branches. I try yanking the string to free it, but it’s totally tangled. The tree doesn’t have any low branches to climb into it either. So, we go back to the blanket and pack up, salute the kite, hum a few bars of Taps, and pull the string until it snaps.The rest of the afternoon is spent taking a walk through some of the park, showing me some of the places you’ve told me about. As the sun starts to go down, you guide me to that quiet little Italian place that you like for dinner (I love the way that the people in the places you like always say hello to you).

“And then, back here again, and you’ll have to go, and we didn’t really get to do anything because I was sick."
Just because you’re krank doesn’t mean you should be cranky. How are you doing there, comfortable?
“Yeah, okay."
Alright, I’m going to put some more music on. I’ll be right back.
It ends up taking me a while to decide. No, wait, you’ve got the new CD. I didn’t even know there was a new one out. Did they come up into the city to play? I put it on and come back to the couch where you’ve fallen asleep again. I pick up your book I was reading before and slowly slide back down on the couch so as not to wake you.
Evening comes for real this time, and it’s you who wakes up to find me sleeping with the book finished in my lap. Your fever’s gone, and so are the chills, but the sweatshirt’s comfy and you leave it on to go into the kitchen.
When I wake up, there’s candlelight coming from the table, and a bowl of greens and tomatoes, and something smells good (I think it may have been my stomach growling that woke me). You’ve switched from playing CD’s to a playlist on the computer: all songs with history, or soundtrack potential. Hey, who said you were allowed to make dinner?
“You have to let me do something."
I let you take care of the picnic.
“Well, tonight I’ve gone to the speciality of the house: frozen pizza."
That has always been perfect.
Dinner is all catch-up: school, work, soccer, movies, books, comings and goings, trying to fit months into minutes. We both clear the table, and you start making coffee while I do the dishes.
“Please, you don’t have to do those, just leave them in the sink. Hey, you can just leave those, okay?" You put your hand on my shoulder to turn me away from the sink, and it turns me, and there’s a pause, and a moment (a prolonged moment) that we let pass.
There’s not that many, and they’ll only take me a second.
With coffee, there’s lemon cake with white icing ("I made it yesterday so it’d be ready already."), and quiet. Not an awkward quiet, just the quiet of understanding. Plus, you’re starting to drift off again. The playlist comes to an end, and it’s clear that means it’s time for bed.
“Won’t you stay a little while longer?" I’ll stay ‘til you’re sleeping comfortably. You go on to get in bed, and I’ll clean up out here. I’m going to borrow a thermal mug to take some coffee with, okay?
“Okay, try not to break it, or you’ll have to replace it.”"
I put the dishes in the sink, pour the rest of the coffee from the thermal carafe into a travel mug, and select one more song from the library, Jonatha Brooke’s “Lullaby".
I come back to sit in the desk chair that’s still by the bed.
“I’m sorry I had to be sick today."
Don’t be, that didn’t matter for me. It was good to see you today. Feel better tomorrow, won’t you petit?
“I’ll try, will you still be here?"
In many ways... you need a bedtime story?
But it’s been a rough day, and you’re already asleep. I stand up to lean close and whisper: I’ll miss you until I get to see you again. Then I take care of a little surprise, and let myself out.
The next day starts much better: still a little groggy, but no other symptoms. You get up, and find the surprise in the next room. The manila envelope is propped up on the table, and a hand-sized model of a kite, made of sun and moon paper, with a red ribbon tail, hangs in the sunlit window over the table.
You leave the envelope for now, opening it when you’re ready to go out. You leave the CD and take the story with you to read in the park. You go to the clearing from yesterday’s story, sit in the grass and start to open up the story when a glimpse of purple and red catches your eye from the upper branches of a tree...

Billings

[This is likely to feel a bit different. First of all, we’ll all be in places I’ve got stronger memories of, so in covering the same distance I’m likely to have more to say. Second, in this one the travel and the places matter as much as our being there. Third, instead of trying to escape anything, I’m trying to capture something before it gets away entirely. Finally, and probably most important, I’m not taking you along for you this time (though you might still enjoy the ride -- they’re beautiful places we go through once we get going); I don’t think I could go by myself, and I wish you would come too just to lend enough momentum to get me all the way through to the end… ]

The Minneapolis airport is an odd collection of divided spaces and narrow dark corridors. Each shop, or bar, or restaurant has it’s own little cubicle set apart on it’s own. The people here also have little to do with each other -- just travelers on their way through.
“I wasn’t expecting Minneapolis.”
It’s just an interchange, a hub, a leaving off point of departure -- speaking of departures, we ought to check the board to see when we’re sheduled to dee-part.
“You mean scheduled to de-párt?”

/Yeah, I know, I do like to play with pronunciation when I speak. He used to do that all the time, exaggerating the vowels, moving the emphases, even making things up -- called me ‘skeeziks’ sometimes. They were both examples of how you could own the language. As a kid, I always thought it was funny how they called each other ‘Mother’ and ‘Dad’. Like they were the originals. Even when I’d grown up it’d catch me by surprise . Every other thing had a different name, whether it was the hamburgs (never hamburgers), on the griller or the need to ‘heetch oop your soospenders’./

Let’s see, Northwest flight to Billings -- seems like we’ve got about a half hour before we’ll be able to board. [This time of year you can expect it to be cold -- and probably snowing, so I decided we ought to be going in May when it’s about 60’s during the day and 40’s at night and spring is getting into gear. So, you’ll need a jacket or a sweater.] Come on with me to buy a crossword book, and then maybe we’ll stop in one of these places and I’ll offer to buy you a drink.
“How about this time you let me buy you one?”
Okay, thanks. I could use one to keep me going on this. You’re running the risk of my talking through the whole trip though.
“That’s what I was counting on -- didn’t you say this trip was for you anyway?”
How do you do that?
“Do what?”
So frequently anticipate me or read my mind.
“You’re the one who’s always saying, ‘It’s not that deep.’”
To the gate; then board (if I’d thought of this earlier, maybe I could’ve gotten us first class reservations); our bag in the overhead bin; take our seats. Do you mind sitting by the window? I still have to stretch my knee out in the aisle sometimes. I grab a few things out of my backpack before fitting it under the seat -- the puzzles, pens, music, your book (what’re you reading now anyway?). We ought to get one of those little pillows since your back thing wasn’t that long ago -- and turn off that icy cold blast of a vent over us; pre-flight presentation; safety belt, tray table, and seat back; runway; acceleration; rush of blood from my hands and feet as the plane throws itself into the air.
“You don’t like flying?”
The flying part I don’t mind, even the landing is okay, but the taking off is not my favorite. I can prove to you that it will work, but it still doesn't look like it should work. Why do you ask?
“You’re squeezing the feeling out of my hand.”
Sorry, I just meant to be holding it. Here, I’ll put something on for us to listen to, and you can help me do a puzzle.
“Sure, but you’ve got to let me hold the pen.”
How about we take turns? Two words each?
“There’s no 38 across in this one.”
It’s too early in the day anyway. What’ve you got that’s five letters for ’fantasy’? Starts with a ‘d’..., ends with an ‘m’, I think.
“Why, what’s the ‘m’ word?’
Four letters for ‘plateau’ = ‘mesa’. If we could see far enough through the clouds out left there, we could see what I always think of when I hear that word: Devil’s Tower.

/They drove my sister and I out here from Pennsylvania. Riding in the Suburban with the Scotty trailer hitched to the back of it. I still have the coring from the gold mine we visited in the Black Hills -- you can see the thin threads of gold in it. The Black Hills, the Badlands; it was an adventure just being places with names like that (at 8 years old). Marveling at Devil’s Tower and Mount Rushmore. My sister trying to keep track of whether she could spot a license plate from every state as we went. Finding the next trailer camp, hopefully one with some shuffleboard or pinball, hooking up the trailer at the site./

There almost always seems to be one or two squares left over that I have to guess at: somebody’s or someplace’s name usually. My head’s getting heavy anyway, don’t think I can read either (not even the in-flight magazine; though there’s a piece here on Barcelona -- you wanna go there next?). If you’re okay with your book, would you mind if I get my armrest up and out of the way, put my earbuds in, pulled my cap down and nodded off for a bit? We’ve still got some driving to do, so it’d be good for me to nap a bit. When the cart comes by, would you get me a tomato juice?
Hmm? What? Oh, thanks for letting me sleep. Time to prepare for landing. Don’t forget your book (I probably lose a book to the seat back pocket every time I fly). The Billings airport is up on the Benches, a big plateau just above the city. So, when you’re watching out the window, you’ll be flying along and all of a sudden the ground jumps up and grabs the plane and you’ve landed already.
Pull in to the gate, unfold myself out of the seat and we’re down the jetway into the terminal. The Billings airport does everything it can to remind you you’re in Montana. There’s the little wooden buffalo you can sit on and ride (if you’re under about 12 -- you know what? If you brought Snowman along that’d be a near-perfect place for him to pose), there’re the horse sculptures in the middle of the baggage carousel. I don’t know where the model airplanes fit in to be honest, but they do draw your eyes up to what are supposed to look like the exposed ceiling joists. Makes it look like you’re just in some big log cabin that someone hand-crafted all the joinery for.

/He did so many things with his hands. You could see their expertise and skill by looking at them. Trained as an electrician, he ended up mostly doing carpentry and cabinetry. I barely remember the first time I got to help him: I must’ve been maybe 6, and it’s not really a memory so much as it is a few flashes of scenes of the work site and the tools out. I broke at least two folding rules that one day (they really seem like they should fold the other way to get flat like that). I’ve got the broken-off end section of one (he saved them, and they moved with him from Pennsylvania to Wyoming) hanging on the pegboard in my workshop -- it reminds me not to ruin anything with haste. Measure twice, cut once: I heard it from him first (although I still hear him say “meesure” or sometimes “meesure tweece” and I’ll bet somebody’s heard me say it that way at some point). By the time I was 16, I’d developed a few skills beyond mastering the folding rule, and I rode the bus up to Uniontown to help him reshingle and repaper (I guess we ought to have repapered first -- maybe I don’t have as many skills as I suggest) the roofs of some of their properties. He was the brains of the operation and I followed his lead and carried whatever had to come up the ladder. We’d go sometimes over an hour without saying anything, just doing our dance with each other. The chalk line, the paper, the shingles, the nails, the mastic, and gravity; just wordlessly sequencing row by row up the roof. I got a little beyond myself trying to drive the nails like he could -- tap once to set, hit once (maybe twice) to drive -- and I drove a big flap of skin off of my thumb. He just looked over and said, “Hit the nail on the head, not the thumb on the nail” and that was it. Didn’t fuss over it, didn’t worry about if a doctor should see it, just go on and get that bandaged up man and then we can get back to our work. He also taught me that you don’t try to hit the nail on the head (regardless of what you may have heard): you try to hit the point the nail enters the board through the head of the nail. That summer, and in all the other projects we worked on together he transferred to me a confidence that with imagination I could build whatever (wooden, organizational, personal,…). I’ll show you the monuments some time (they’re disguised as a footbridge and a trellis, but I built them to him as much as I built them for me./

We’ll have to rent a car to get to Powell. Something small and overpowered so we can take advantage of the 85 mph speed limit. Can you drive a stick? They don’t have anything red either -- I’m not sure if you or I can look good in a car that’s not red.
“Oh, I can.”
That’s right, I’ve seen you stylin’ in the green machine.
"I’ve got some CD’s if you can get one with a CD player.”
Yeah, well, I bet I can -- do you have anything that needs to be played loud? I expect to be roaring down the road with all the windows down, singing along.
"Yeah, I think we'll need to turn it up loud if that's what you're going to do."
It takes about 15 minutes to get from the airport at the north end of Billings to the far southern suburbs. From there, we just keep flying south on 310, just about right between the Crow Indian Reservation off to our left and Yellowstone National Park to our right. At any time you could easily count every tree within view. The horizon seems so much further away here. If you stare out for a bit, you can almost make out the curvature. I could imagine bringing my bike out here, leaving the road and just taking off, maybe heading on a spirit quest into the reservation. Never seeming to get any closer to anything, just forcing a journey out until my lungs burn and froth and legs scream and arms just won’t hold the handlebars anymore. Just go till I drop to see how far that could be and to see who I was when I got there.

/They started doing a lot of riding when they took the trailer down to Florida and left it there as a winter home (they’d probably be coming back here about now). At different times, they found that one or the other of them couldn’t ride -- the knees, the balance, or the stamina weren’t there -- so he found a way to lash them together braced side-by-side tandem, and between the two of them they’d keep on going out to ride. A partnership like that leaves me speechless, makes me want to be better at it than I am now./

Here’s finally the intersection where we make a turn. I’d probably miss it, but it’s marked by an ice cream shop/rest stop/gas station (Hey, when you’ve got the property near the intersection, you make the most of it I guess). Maybe we oughtta go ahead and stop to eat. Prob’ly should’ve had lunch when we were in Billings, but I was anxious to get going. Now it’s mid-afternoon here (or late afternoon EST) and lunch is often optional for me, so I don’t really know if I’m hungry or not. I’ll make myself get some kind of sandwich so I’m not just getting ice cream.

/He’d always bring a lunch pail to the job site that she had packed for him: a sandwich, some fruit, a thermos of coffee that’d come out of the percolator that morning (I used to love to watch/smell/puzzle over that percolator going), and a whole tomato, maybe a hard boiled egg. Initially I thought that tomato was the oddest thing, but now I practically consider it summer only when the tomatoes are good enough to eat like an apple. That tartness and sweetness of that first wet bite, then trying not to have it run all down your arm as you finish the rest of it./

Stopping for a break here was a good idea. Can we just sit together on this bench and enjoy a cone? That’d let me relax a bit -- I can’t believe how wound up I’m getting as we get closer to where we’re going. That’s nice when you muss my hair like that. I’m ready to get going again. Down 14A towards Powell, almost there now.
Powell is inside this huge basin with mountains on three sides. It was mostly dust until they channeled the water into the irrigation system. It mirrors the road system in places (or maybe the roads came second?): running alongside the road it has it’s own intersections controlled by their own signals that switch the flow from one to another on some schedule. The melt’s far enough along that the channels are full, and all the fields are starting to green up.

/There were always gardens at their house in Uniontown. Every spring the vegetable garden had to get tilled and hoed -- it’d take two days because it was such a big garden. About a third of it was corn: by mid-summer it was a good place to play hide and seek. Another third would be tomatoes: every year we’d get crates and crates of canned tomatoes in Bell jars, which meant stewed tomatoes in your spaghetti, in your goulash, in that rice dish with your chicken (it’s a shame I can’t stand stewed tomatoes; I just can’t get past their consistency and feel). Fortunately, there’d also be canned peaches (which they must’ve bought), pears (from their tree), and applesauce (from the two trees in back). The apple trees were just the right distance apart to hang that hammock I picked out for them. She sent it back to me in that last year ‘cause they weren’t using it anymore, and I still have it. Of course, if you didn’t want to take the time to put the hammock up you could still just climb up into the trees and hang by your knees. The flower gardens were on the side of the house, and always included a big patch of snapdragons. She showed me how to make them do the snapping thing probably at least twice every time they were in bloom. Why can’t I remember how to do it? The back porch had a manhole cover in it which opened up into the cistern beneath. When it was too dry, you’d run a line down into it and pump some water out into the garden./

We’re not stopping in the town, we have to go past and to the first hills just beyond. Nobody seems to be around today, so we can go ahead and park pretty close by. There’s a stone bench, and the sun’s still pretty warm, though it’s going down a bit. I’ll leave you here for now, and go on myself. I won’t be long.
From here, there’s nothing to block your vision for miles. On the right day, you can look out and see it raining off in the distance; see the clouds and the rain falling out of them, and never feel a drop. At times it feels like you can see to infinity, at other times it feels like infinity can see you, and that’s what I’m hoping for today.
When I get back, the tears are still coming and my voice cracks a bit when I thank you for wiping my cheek.
“How’d it go? You okay?”
Yeah, I’m good. I couldn’t cry when we left them here. I didn’t want them to think,… I just needed to come back to tell them how much depended on them. And how I knew that.
Can we just sit here together for a bit while I settle? We can watch the sun go down -- man, it’s great here, like widescreen. Maybe if it doesn’t get cold too fast we’ll watch the stars come out too; maybe make a wish, and I’ll tell you another story…



[My G’pa passed in April ‘03. My G’ma took some time to straighten everything out, then left in August. At the time, I wanted to be solid so my mom could lean on me and didn’t give myself a chance to lose them.
They used to alternate years between the WY/MT/ID part of their family and the VA/PA/NY part. This Christmas they would’ve been here.]