Road Trips

Gawd, I love a road trip!  I’ll be leaving on xmas eve morning for my Aunt’s house in East Texas, where those family that can gather have celebrated for over 20 years.

 

We drove many, many miles when I was growing up, for everything from skate competitions to vacations.  The only place I ever flew was to Ohio and back until I was a teenager.  My clearest memory of road trips as a child was lying in the back seat reading, I think I was the only one who could read in a car without getting sick.  On our vacation trips to Disney World one year and Disneyland another, I remember singing many times with mom, “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,” our anthem on those solo trips.

 

As an adult, I’ve driven mostly in Texas on shorter road trips with friends.  There were many camping trips tubing down the Frio or the Guadalupe Rivers, caving trips all over the state with my geology-minded friend Dana, many road trips to nowhere and back discussing everything with my everything-minded friend Michael.  Even the two hour drives to Galveston became road trips, with the packing of provisions and the choosing of music to be sung at screaming level.

 

In 2007, I decided to take a real road trip, outside Texas, eight days in late March.  I had missed going to Ohio for Thanksgiving with my dad the year before because of the flu, so I invited him to join me for half the trip.  I travelled through 14 states and stopped in every one somewhere, and not just to pee or get gas. 

 

The radio blasting while I scream along and sometimes dance within the confines of my seat belt.  Then the miles and miles of silence with nothing but road noise, sunroof open, windows down, not thinking about anything but what is passing before my eyes.  The lottery for clean, safe gas and bladder relief.  The highway drivers and long haul truckers who know how to use the passing lane.  The friendly strangers on country roads who nod and smile, even pull onto the shoulder so you can pass.  The people-watching and imagining at restaurants and rest stops.  The signs for the most amazing, unbelievable things.

 

For vacations and road trips, I like to have destinations, but no strict timeline.  Should I see a sign for a Rattlesnake Rodeo, I have plenty of time to check this out, because now I must know: Are they lassoing them and tying them up like calves?  Are they riding them like bulls?  Do they have little snake saddles?  How exactly is it a Rodeo?  Does someone herd them into a corral?  Hopefully, before I get to the exit, I will remember that we are talking about snakes here, and I will keep driving.  I can read about that stuff somewhere, I don’t have to see it.  But that sign for a tour of the Russell Stover chocolate factory, that I want to see, and I’m not leaving without some freshly made chocolate.

 

My first destination was my birthplace.  I’d left at three months and had never been in the state since.  Five hours later, I finally left Texas and entered Louisiana, then Arkansas, then Tennessee, into Kentucky.

 

Fort Campbell.  There wasn’t a sign saying “Poof! And there she was!” or anything, although I’m sure it was there at one time, they probably had to make room for a road or something silly like that.  One of the gate soldiers told me that that summer, they were tearing the original entrance down and building another one somewhere else.  I was just in time with my trusty camera, at least for that leg of the journey.

 

From Kentucky, it was on to Ohio to pick up dad.  I spent the night and caught up with family who were around, then dad and I were off the next morning, out of Ohio and into the Pennsylvania mountains.  We hugged Lake Erie through New York, around the tip and to Niagara Falls and Canada.

 

At the border, they asked if we had any weapons.  I looked down into the console and saw the canister of mace that my co-worker Heather had given me for protection before my solo trip.  Apparently mace is considered a weapon in Canada.  I had to pull over and go into the Canadian customs office, where they made us wait forever while they scrutinized our passports and whispered to each other.  I thought I was going to jail in Canada for having mace!  Who the h*ll would come that far to bail me out?  They finally had me sign a form that I was “voluntarily surrendering my weapon” and let me into their country.

 

I discovered that late March is not the opportune time to visit Niagara Falls.  There was ice tens of feet thick still in the falls, the lagoon was iced except where the falls fell around the ice.  It was still gorgeous, the multitude of rainbows created from the falls was spectacular, and the changing light show at night was engaging.

 

I do have to say that I was a bit disappointed.  The majority of pictures of the falls are shown at an angle where you don’t see the city surrounding them, and you never see the wall of hotels, restaurants and shops that line the Canadian side of the falls.  I had pictured the falls as being out in the middle of country by themselves, nothing but maybe a few hotels and restaurants close by, keeping it natural.  But I was still glad I saw it.

 

When we left Canada, they didn’t return my weapon, but I luckily didn’t need it in Salem, Massachusetts.  Having two accused witches in our genealogy, my mother asked me years ago to write a story, so this was my chance to do some research.  I wasn’t sure when or if I’d ever write that story, but I do like research.

 

Sarah and Edward Bishop ran an unlicensed pub and were accused as witches, arrested and examined on April 22, 1692, just a few months after the hysteria began.  They were remanded to jail, where they stayed until they escaped in October, days before they would have been sentenced and hung.  The only others who escaped were Phillip and Mary English, rich merchants, and Captain John Alden, a ships owner.  I was hoping to find some information on how my ancestors escaped, but I’d have been happy with the stories of the other escapes.

 

Again, my late March timetable was bad planning on my part.  The majority of the historical places that I’d hoped to visit were still closed for another week or two, only the touristy places were open.  The two historical places I did find focused on those 19 who were hung, with not much information on the other 139 accused.  I did get to see an aunt and uncle I hadn’t seen in years for dinner, as well as eat some of the best New England Clam Chowder I’ve ever had.

 

We left Massachusetts, stopped for breakfast in Connecticut, then hit Manhattan.  My dad hadn’t seen Ground Zero and wanted to see the rebuilding.  I’d seen it a year later, in September of 2002, on a business trip.  This time there were signs of structure rebuilding.  They had plans out for two infinity pool memorials, set to be finished by September 2011, I believe.

 

After spending over two hours trying to get out of New York, and in the process making it into New Jersey twice on a convoluted tollway, we finally found Pennsylvania, then the road to Ohio.  I dropped dad off and continued on, as he has extremely sulfurous water.  When I had showered the morning we left Ohio, the smell swiftly hit my gag reflex, but I was already in and wet, so I held my nose and finished.  All day long, I would turn my head and get a whiff of myself and just about gag again.  It was horrendous!  I couldn’t do it twice.

 

So with an, “I still have two good hours of driving left in me,” to dad and the sibs, I drove across Ohio and into Indiana, looking for a decent hotel.  I did not know how far that sulfur thing went, I figured I might be safe out of state.

 

Somehow, I got lost on a country two-lane road in Indiana.  I needed gas, I really had to pee, and I’d been driving for two hours in the dark.  I could either keep going or turn around and go back who knew how far.

 

I pulled over, grabbed some tissue and did what I had to do, then with at least one less thing to worry about, I headed back the way I came.  About eight miles later, I saw a sign pointing me six miles to a Steve Alford Inn.  I know a Steve Alford so I took this as my sign.  Really, I was exhausted, hungry and sore, it would do, whatever it turned out to be, hopefully.

 

Six miles later, I saw a gas station, then the Inn.  As I pulled into the Inn, I saw further down at the stoplight a Wal-Mart.  New Castle, Indiana had turned into a haven, so after ensuring a room, I went off to pay homage to Wal-Mart, getting in return a delicious recipe for removing those disgusting bug guts from the windshield.

 

I left Indiana with a Steve Alford Inn logoed notepad for my friend Steve Alford, and excellent directions on how to get back to where I should have been.  Illinois to Missouri to Arkansas to Louisiana to Texas, with mostly gas and bathroom stops, as I’d had enough adventure by then and just wanted to be home.

 

My next solo trip I’ve had planned for three years.  I can’t seem to get both the money and the time to match up, but maybe next year.  I’m going to visit old haunts of my youth and places I’ve wanted to see in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and even Mexico.  I want to see Las Vegas, just to know I have, and the Grand Canyon, I want to see if I have the stones to walk on that skywalk thingy.  Carlsbad Caverns, the caverns themselves and the continuous curtain of bats leaving at dusk.  White Sands Missile Range, where we used to slide down the sand dunes on Frisbees, then run back up and do it again and again and again.  Ruidoso, New Mexico, where I spent three half-hellish, half-amazing summers.  El Paso, where I spent my childhood, and Juarez, the border just a few blocks away from where the skating rink once stood.  I want to see them through adult eyes, but still with my child’s memories, as skewed as some people may think they are.   

 

This road trip on xmas eve is a familiar route, rarely anything new, and less than six hours one way, yet I’ll enjoy every minute.  Then I’ll catch up with family, eat too much, sleep on the sofa bed, be awakened by Uncle Wayne at 5 something, cutely whine for the next four or five hours on how it’s not fair that we have to wait for my cousins and their kids to have Santa at their house before they finally make it over so WE can FINALLY open presents, appoint myself Santa’s Elf and start handing out presents as they stream through the door, then get to mine.  Once we’re all caught up, after gifts and lunch, I’ll be back on the road.  I’m just not a “visit” type person, I catch up then go on my way.

 

The trip home always seems shorter, and every familiar landmark that brings me closer has me sitting up a little straighter.  When I pull onto my street, I almost always give a sigh of relief that I’m finally home.  And once I’m there, I’m not leaving until I absolutely must.

 

But it won’t be long until I start thinking about my next road trip.  When is the best time to see the Grand Canyon, do you think?