While Listening to Coltrane

"Though I play at the edges of knowing,/truly I know/our part is not knowing,/but looking, and touching, and loving,/which is the way I walked on,/softly,/through the pale-pink morning light." --Mary Oliver, "Bone" from Why I Wake Early

"So Penelope took the hand of Odysseus,/not to hold him back but to impress/this peace on his memory:/from this point on, the silence through which you move/is my voice pursuing you." --Louise Gluck, "Quiet Evening" from Meadowlands

It's not so much about being Penelope's daughter, but recognizing that I am Penelope, Odysseus, and Athena rolled into one; I embody all three at once. A trinity in and of itself. Home, Quest, and the twin engines of action: Desire and Intuition. The trinity balances, keeps the earth spinning, keeps the world moving forward, keeps me on the road, path, trail, interstate, always with some sense of direction, and, if I know anything, always knowing change is constant.

As much as Alexandra remains at home in O Pioneers! certain her purpose is to shape the land, give all of herself to it, knowing the cost, Willa Cather traveled, as if her constant movement would propel everything else forward along with her. The price is the same for both: the ever-present need for reconciliation, order, meaning, constant creation.

So what is this need for space? Or silence? Or place between/within the conversation between the piano and the sax? Maybe it's about the persistent possibility of catching a glimpse, of seeing the very thing that would settle the moment.


Photos (from top to bottom): Scipio, Utah; outside Beatrice, Nebraska; north of Lebanon, Kansas; outside Beatrice, Nebraska.

Oasis North of Barstow

Total mileage for the entire trip: 6,115 miles. Time for an oil change and a car wash.

The final leg home, from St. George Utah to Los Angeles, took me a little by surprise and simply points to my ignorance of geography in this region. The drive through the Virgin River Gorge is one of the more dramatic I've taken and while I am still not terribly moved by the browns, beiges, tans, and ecrus that make up this Arizona-California desert, its remoteness struck me as otherworldly. I was pining for a little of the remoteness I experienced traveling through Missouri, Nebraska, Kansas and Wyoming when I unwillingly became part of a speeding caravan of cars headed toward LA--sort of like being absorbed into the bunny hop even when you don't want to dance. You really have no choice but to keep a constant eye out for the weavers and the right-passers. After an hour of driving in California, I did indeed conclude California has the worst drivers. Driving on various interstates this summer, I've come to appreciate the language and rules of two-lane driving. The basics are easy: left lane is for passing, right lane is for traveling. And you signal when you change lanes. Californians, I think, take pride in being able to shun, defy, loop around these basic courtesies. Needless to say, I found the traffic and the weaving all a little irritating and disheartening. I was charmed, however, by a billboard I spotted about an hour north of Barstow. Now, mind you, I don't recall EVER getting off the highway solely because of a billboard and this one was not particularly funny or cute or clever. It simply stated "Peggy Sue's 50's Diner." This appeared three times, the last one promising it was just 5 minutes ahead. I-15, Ghost Town Road exit. There it is, a twilight zone kinda place complete with diner food (decent hamburgers), a pizza parlor, a soda fountain (great shakes), and the mother of all kitschy memorabilia shops--all somehow 50s related. Sitting at the counter waiting patiently for my burger and slaw, I started taking note of the signs on the walls: "if you're mean, irritable, or just plain grouchy, a $10 charge will be added to your check." And one of my favorites: "All children unattended and running around loose will be picked up and stowed at owner's expense." This place certainly isn't Ole's, but it is a welcome bit of amusement in the heat of the Calfornia desert. Enjoying my coffee ice cream shake as I headed toward Victorville, Apple Valley and the junction for the 210 made it a little easier to accept that space, sky, grass, trees, and summer rain were all behind me. Five weeks of maps, signs, gas prices, mileage counts, museums, new cities, jazz, scrabble, books, mountains, prairies, and interesting folks were done. And three miles before my exit off the 101? A traffic jam, naturally, throwing me into second gear and beginning to erase the memory of 85 mph on the interstate.

In need of a chocolate shake

Some travel data for the day:
Distance traveled today: 698 miles, 11 hours.
Most nerve-wracking moment: torrential rain, near-0 visibility in LA-like highway traffic in Salt Lake City.
Topography: from the high plains of Wyoming to the mountains of northern Utah to the Basin south of Salt Lake City to the desert mountains of southern Utah--astounding varied terrain in 698 miles!
Oddity of the day: a handful of hay hit my windshield as I was driving--I have no idea where it came from.

Every time I got in my car to drive somewhere in St. Louis, no matter the time of day, I marveled at the lack of traffic. There were cars, people out and about, but no traffic. Needless to say, traveling to Illinois, Tennessee, northern Mississippi, Nebraska, Kansas, even driving through Wyoming--no traffic. So what's the deal with Salt Lake City? Traffic. Yes, torrential rain, but the traffic resembled a freeway in LA. I was amazed--and irritated. As we inched our way south, away from the cell that was dumping all of its water on the cars of SLC, I then became amazed at how far SLC seemed to extend (suburban sprawl) and how long it took for the traffic to thin out. About 10 miles south of Provo. After nine hours of driving, and about two more to go, I was feeling a little harried and what appeared on the I-15 at the right moment? DQ. Ah, a chocolate shake to keep me going another 160 miles. Home tomorrow. Still more to come on Cather and John Coltrane...

On the way home

I will cover my trip to Red Cloud, Nebraska in the next post.

Some travel data:

Total miles covered on this trip since June 29: 5025

Total number of states I have driven through (excluding CA): 12 (after tomorrow, 13)

Most expensive gas thus far: $3.39/gallon in Sidney, Nebraska. If only I had waited until I crossed over into Wyoming!

Oddity of the Day: Ole's Big Game Steakhouse and Lounge, Paxton, Nebraska.

Last night, a friend launched into a story about his visit to this hole-in-the-wall many years ago and breezing west on the I-80, when I spotted the highway sign for Paxton, I remembered this was the town. How hard could it be to find a strange restaurant, the name of which escaped me? Barely a mile north of the I-80 and just west of the mountain-central time zone line, is Paxton, a one-intersection town, complete with three restaurants, a post office, and a public library. Finding Ole's was not a problem as it seemed to be on, well, Main Street (I actually don't know if that's the name of the street, but it might as well be). You know it's a tourist must-see--like the largest ball of twine--when upon entering you find t-shirts and caps for sale. Believe it or not, I saw these first not the glass-encased stuffed polar bear greeting everyone at the entrance. For anyone who has not had the pleasure of driving through Paxton, I will try to summarize what attracts folks in the know to this place: up on the walls (indeed as my friend last night faithfully described!) are heads (ok, sometimes full bodies) of stuffed animals, supposedly from every continent, hunted down, picked off, and brought back home by the founder of Ole's, which began as a hunter's tavern back in 1933. Everywhere you look, animals. Mounted snarling, growling, or bambi-eyed. For those who succumb easily to their predatory instincts: home sweet home. Then there are the hundreds of photographs with handwritten descriptions of where, when, and what. Near my booth: horse dragging a dead moose in the snow, 1950. So I ordered a BLT and while I waited for my lunch, I walked around the restaurant (they invite you to do that). Hemingway would have LOVED this guy! Elephant, bear, elk--all the standard--but giraffe? Yep. Giraffe. With most of its neck projecting from the wall. I sat back down in my booth and looked directly above me, and to my consternation was Bullwinkle. Looming over me, the, ahem, fur of his throat within a raised hand's distance--a bull moose, to be precise, bagged in Alaska and stuffed in 1959. This is when the word "nightmare" came to mind. Sure enough, the feeling I had entered a Stephen King novel was supported by a three year old little boy who buried his face in the corner of the booth behind me, sniffling, and telling Daddy he didn't want to go look at the animals. I'm with ya kid. If this ain't all freaky enough, there's the keno (also part of my friend's story)--and at the bottom of the keno pad conveniently provided at your table is a toll free number for a compulsive gambling helpline. Have fun and know that we care! I've never played keno, and while the menu cheerfully invited me to "soak up the atomosphere" for at least two hours, my lungs had already soaked up enough second-hand smoke; therefore, it looked like I'd never have the chance to figure out how to play keno. So I paid my bill (the BLT was fine) and stepped out into the bright sunlight. Oh, and of course I signed the guest book.

I'm an English Teacher--whadya expect?

Red Cloud, Nebraska. Pop. 1313. The intersection of routes 281 and 136. This small town, which looks as if it has its economic difficulties (empty store fronts, not very many young people), is utterly tenacious in its connection to Willa Cather. As it should be. Much like Hannibal Missouri does with Mark Twain, Red Cloud depends heavily on the Cather name to lure the tourists down to Nebraska on the 281, about 40 miles south of the I-80. I'm not sure how successful they really are at doing this. When asked where I was from--an opening salutation I got six times in two days--I replied, Los Angeles. A nod. Then, "Are you here for the family reunion?" "No." "What brings you here then?" "I'm here for the Willa Cather tour." "Oh. Any particular reason why?" "Well, I'm an English teacher and ..." A long, drawn out "oh." A nod of understanding and then silence. Nothin' like stating my occupation to kill a conversation. And this, in the only restaurant in town opened on a Sunday night, except for the Subway around the corner. The woman who owns this cafe is renovating the hotel that comes with it. As I was the only customer in the establishment, she graciously showed me parts of the first floor that had been completed. Nice rooms, with bathrooms. I'd stay there should I ever be in Red Cloud again. Good chicken stir fry. Leave a souvenir hat when you go--she'll hang it on the wall.

So yes, I'm an English teacher. With a knowledgable guide named Priscilla who moved and talked slowly but drove her maroon minivan like a speed demon, I went from Red Cloud Opera House to Cather's childhood house to the town depot and a few other spots. Any Cather-related locations out in the countryside, I was on my own. After being assured there were gravel roads out in the country, I thought I'd give it a try in my modest Honda Civic. Did I mention it had been raining off and on in Red Cloud for the last five days? 4 inches. Even that undermines the integrity of the best gravel roads. And yes, well beyond town, beyond a farmhouse with horses, beyond two huge cornfields and in the midst of yet another, I got stuck. In the mud. On this "minimum maintenance road." Did I see the mud before I got stuck? Of course not. I saw a gravel road. A few moments of not panicking when it began to rain again and having visions of flash floods, tornadoes and other midwestern weather horrors, I focused on first gear and my spinning tires. The moment I was freed from the mire, I managed a 10-point turn in the narrow country lane and high-tailed it back for the main road at 5 mph. I settled for Priscilla's guided tour of the houses in town. This is not to say I did not get a good look at Cather's prairie--I did, a little south of town, near the Kansas border. And I didn't have to off-road to get there. Truly beautiful, and had it been less wet, I would have gone walking through it. I love the mountains, the vertical expanse, the vastness of geologic time evident before me. The prairie is the horizontal version. That expanse, that enormity of earth's time spread out in softly rolling hills guarded by the equally vast sky above it. No camera--at least in my hands--can do it justice.

My self-guided countryside prairie tour ala O Pioneers and My Antonia a failure, I headed south on the 281, toward lighter skies and Kansas. I had an important mission. Two actually. Both not terribly far away from Red Cloud.

AND

(two more sites I can check off on my list of things to see before I...well...you know...)

One other piece of information about Red Cloud: a siren goes off at seven in the morning and about four in the afternoon. The first morning I heard it, I thought it was a tornado warning, and visions of midwestern weather horrors started swirling before me: flash floods, dust storms, whole towns being wiped away, people left stranded with only their bathtubs and a picture of Nana, bad Helen Hunt films, the Wicked Witch of the East... But nothing happened as I stood there paused with my hair dryer suspended above my head. My B&B hostess, Dee, did not come running upstairs telling us to scoot for the cellar--or wherever it is people go to hide out from a tornado. Silly me. The following morning, I asked Dee, what's with the siren? She laughed a little and said it was part of the farming tradition. The morning one to wake people up, the afternoon one to tell folks the day is done, we'll meet up at Cutter's at six for some Bud (ok, so I added that last part). Isn't it the same siren as the tornado warning, I asked? Yes, she laughed again, and they test it every Saturday morning even though the whole town knows it works--as each day testifies. I should also mention the two friendly cats who followed me around in the town bookstore, needing some behind-the-ear scratching. You can trust a town that has friendly animals in the bookstore (this one also had a big black, fluffy poodle).

It may not seem like it, but the English teacher in me was perfectly satisfied by my visit--I have plenty of pictures and extra little tidbits to share with students when we get to My Antonia. I stayed at a B&B, the house of which was owned by the Cather family, and I stayed in the room Willa used when she came back to Red Cloud to visit. How much more could I possibly soak up without getting all muddy? So on Tuesday morning, in the rain (natch), with books and posters verifying my pilgrimage, plus a touch of food poisoning/stomach flu which would hit with a vengeance later that morning, I headed back north on the 281 to the I-80 east, back to Lincoln. My Willa Cather sojourn over? Not entirely...

In Ordinary Time

Fifteen miles south of the I-80, on the 281, lies the town of Hastings, Nebraska. I found St. Cecilia's on West 7th rather easily and when I parked my car it was spitting rain, but I walked around the church, nonetheless, taking some pictures. This is the church in which my mother was schooled and catechized between 1939 and 1951. A significant portion of her life was spent here doing a number of things, not the least of which was working for the nuns in exchange for voice lessons. As a teenager, she was a regular soloist in the choir; this led her to other singing competitions around the state which in turn helped forge the path to the San Francisco Opera. The prairie, the Hastings squared-off town, and this church--there is my mother's landscape--nearly complete. When I glanced at the schedule, I realized it was only 15 minutes before the next service and while this may be completely inexplicable to certain folks, I stood staring at the doors and the statue of St. Cecilia, keeping company with a couple of fat pigeons, for several minutes while I wondered if I had the nerve to go in. I was in no super hurry to get to Red Cloud, another 40 miles south on the 281, and I did have to ask myself, why bother to make this stop if I were not going to enter? What is this reluctance all about? The hesitation? An elderly woman who was slowly making her way up the steps to go in, turned to me and said "good morning." So I sat near the back and attended mass for the first time in x years. Throughout the mass, I did what I tended not to do when I was a child sitting in church. I listened. I found myself swallowed up by words, feeling that the priest was eloquent and trying his best to connect with the congregation, to offer something meaningful. On the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time, I found myself moved to tears by the time the recitation of the creed came along and by the end, I realized I was saying goodbye to my mother, who at this time, is nearing the end in a slow, painful way. In ordinary time, I was a traveller passing through, feeling how extraordinary it was to be in this place at this moment hearing the words of song and speech.