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.