Final Notes and Homecoming

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from Kathy

August 11, 2008—

The most thought-provoking question I heard on the trip was asked by Michael Modzelewski, naturalist on the Inner Passage cruise:

If you didn’t know how old you were, how old would you be?

I thought of this question as we ended four days of silliness and high fun surrounding my mother’s 80th birthday, where no one was acting 80—not even close to it. But at 7 a.m. on Monday, August 11, it was time to go. Our farewell entourage included my brother Tom, who had just finished building a new house. He called out to the departing Roadster: "We have a brand new septic system that needs breaking in! Come visit!"

Grandma, ever the last to get a joke, looked blank for a minute, then put her hands to her mouth to suppress her laugh.

At mile 7,818 on the odometer, we entered Rt. 70, on our way to the New Stanton entrance of the PA Turnpike. One more time, the concrete ribbon was before us and the signs were going by: Dunningsville, Kammerer, Bentleyville. My high school played sports with some of these towns a million years ago, when I was in school here.

I settled into highway hypnosis, a place where my brain encounters the world at 60 mph. For instance, I imagine there is a giant mouth beneath the Roadster and the car is gobbling up lengths of white and yellow ribbons as it darts forward. Where do all those lane lines go once we’re gone? Will the car get indigestion? At other times, I have imagined the car as a giant roller skate, with the four of us sticking our feet out the bottom and stroking the pavement in unison--skating instead of driving on tires. I don’t even have to take drugs to get this loopy—all I have to do is keep sitting on the passenger side of the Floonian Roadster.

We pass an exit for Route 51—one of those core roads in the arterial system of the Pittsburgh area, a road name that resonates from those mashed-up childhood recollections of parents and grandparents giving each other directions from here to there.

“Just take 51,” my grandfather would say.

“It’s down Rt. 51,” my mother would say. “Get on 51, go five miles, take the exit ...” They’re still driving Rt. 51, but I’m on my way to New Stanton. The signs are beginning to appear.

Once, my dad was driving me to college and we got so absorbed in our conversation we forgot to take our turn and found ourselves in New Stanton before we realized what we’d done—a full hour out of the way.

New Stanton is one of the main Pittsburgh gateways to the PA Turnpike. It's the oldest interstate toll road in the country—a road designed for another day. (Since our return, the PA Turnpike got a front-page story in the Wall Street Journal discussing its past, its condition, and difficulties in its future.) The lanes are narrow, pavement uneven, the pullouts minimal. Speed limit: 65 mph, sometimes 55 mph. (We’re not in the West anymore, Toto.) This road tackles some pretty challenging terrain—lots of steep mountains, narrow valleys in between. In 20+ years, we have seen every inch under construction but the underlying design of the road hasn’t changed. It’s easy to see what designers of the newer interstates learned from the PA Turnpike.

In Somerset, we pass a little wind farm on the left. Unlike so many of the farms we’ve passed in Western PA, this farm is not for sale. Landowners who host windmills earn quite a bit of money from rent or from the electricity they send into the grid. Wind—the new agronomic crop—may save that farm’s other operations.

What is it about red barns and Pennsylvania? We started seeing them again in Indiana, but Pennsylvania brings the red barn to its pinnacle. All shapes and sizes—square and round, saltbox and colonial, one story, three stories, silos, haylofts--Pennsylvania red barns have it all. Why are barns red? In the Midwest and West, many barns are white or metallic. From Internet research, I learn it is probably a tradition that started on European farms where paint was sometimes made of milk and linseed oil mixed with ferrous oxide—a.k.a. rust. Rust inhibits all sorts of microbes. Some paint was even made with the blood of slaughtered animals, also an inhibitor. Later, people just kept painting barns red. If you have other information on this, please let me know.

Another agricultural brain teaser: Why do round hay bales in plastic wrap lie about the fields? We have seen these from Prince Edward Island (on earlier trips) all the way to Iowa. Beyond Iowa, hay bales are square. Why the division? We puzzle over this repeatedly throughout the trip. The round bales are enormous compared to square—so they would have to be lifted by equipment. We wonder why they are allowed to sit in the fields, sometimes uncovered. Again, I consulted the Internet and learned that it’s mostly about labor. The round bales can be created and moved by one person and a machine. The square bales, though efficient for human handling and storage, tend to require more labor. Where they lack farm labor, the hay bales are round.

So the day and the highway go by: Harrisburg, Allentown, Morristown, NJ, Tappan Zee Bridge, and the Merritt Parkway, New Haven, home.

Home?!? The Floonian Roadster enters the driveway at 6 p.m +/- a few minutes. Odometer: 8,436. Our friends, who stayed in the house all summer, are not home. Wolfe has returned to Florida, Francoise (“Baboise”) has gone to the library. Sandy, our lovely and loving mutt, goes into her version of frenzy, turning in circles, hunkering down, jumping up. She remembers us! Our house is immaculate. There are flowers and a bottle of champagne waiting.

My inner housekeeper sighs the sigh of the hopeless. I think of the amount of stuff that’s waiting in the Roadster to be brought indoors and wish I could live in a clean house all the time. I know what this kitchen will look like in an hour and accept my fate. It’s difficult to live in a clean house and also live.

Scott and JJ bring in the bags and boxes we ask of them. Then, faster than we can say “Don’t drop that in the kitchen!” they are gone. Scott takes off on his skate board, scooting down the driveway at top speed. We do not see him again until the following evening. JJ grabs the keys for the Honda and is gone until 11:30. We note the burn of rubber as he tears out of the driveway to meet up with his friends.

Home, home on the range. The place looks lovely, foreign, and familiar all at once. As the night progresses, I find myself wishing I was back in the car. I don’t want to deal with a house again! I don’t want to bring these gardens back to good condition! I want the freedom to get up and go somewhere and not worry about the dishes!

I want freedom, I want freedom … this mood goes on for nearly two days, while I remind myself that too much of anything—including freedom—has declining returns. How many days would I have been able to keep driving and seeing the sights before I hit the wall with a fatal case of the travel cooties?

When would I begin to long for “real life” again?

Final Thoughts

August 12, 2008: We drove 8,436 miles safely. We had long hours of peace in the car, many good laughs, lots of moments of insight and sharing, and a few hours of discord and disillusionment. As the see-saw of human moods goes, this was definitely a well balanced alternation of ups and downs. Our house was in better shape than we left it, thanks to Wolfe and Baboise. Our work was still there. Our dog still recognized us. The cat even pretended to be a little friendly.

I declare this experience a great success. Not one to be repeated, perhaps—but a great, unique success.

August 13, 2008—We re-entered the physical world of our office (both of us continued to work part-time and monitored e-mail during the trip), where our wonderful co-workers have kept everything running beautifully.

August 14, 2008—There was a party for Sonya to celebrate her ten years at Performance Programs, Inc. The Prairie Dog and Ainoolf were there with gifts from the North and the West.

August 23, 2008--Now, almost two weeks have passed. Paul left for Newfoundland on August 15 for what is now his third annual trip to that place of his family’s ancestry. He had planned this all along and the preceding 8,436 miles hadn’t deterred him. He took off in his beloved Jeep with a suitcase and an iPod and a computer. We hear from him daily and he continues to work remotely from hotel rooms along the way.

Today, as I write, it is August 31 and Paul is returning tonight from his third annual trip to Newfoundland. Someone asked me last night: Doesn't he work? Indeed, he does--the Internet is our liberation from place and space.

But then again, if you think about Paul, you have to think about the question I opened with:

If you didn’t know how old you were, how old would you be?

Watch out ... I'll be letting him answer that question! There may be a missive or two from Floonia.

Om, chanti, chanti, peace, Namaste.

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Photos

Sandy the Dog Remembers Us!
She almost knocked JJ over.

Welcome Home Prairie Dog
He gets a lift in Scott's Backpack.

Ainoolf and Clark Griswold the Prairie Dog Bring Presents
We have a celebration at the office for Sonya's tenth year at PPI. Our mascots are there, bearing gifts!

Farewell for Now
What fun it's been to share this trip with so many wonderful people.

Comments

[Susan]

Drive and Scribe, Inc.
What a wonderful memoir of a great trip! You and Paul need to start a travel business where you will accompany travelers on their trips, Paul will drive and you will blog. Seriously, thanks for sharing your travels with us. I can't wait for your next trip!

[Connolly US Road Trip]

Drive and Scribe ...
Let's just hope we never get mixed up and have me behind the wheel while he writes! Thanks, Susan ...