Travel Seasons

"On the road" becomes a rather absurd metaphor when one is in New York City in the middle of November. Gone are my summer days of rural expanse, prairie vistas, wide open spaces that remind you how to breathe. I've gone from horizontal to vertical and I'm convinced there's a psychological shift in perspective that goes with that. Also gone, for the time being anyway, are any romantic, nostalgic memories of autumn in the northeast.
However, I feel compelled to include this business jaunt and make it a part of my Penelope Road travels because, despite the rain, wind, awful hotel, runny scrambled eggs, and heavy laptop, my first 12 hours here remind me that I have something to learn about kinks, snafus, and New Yorkers who think they're funny (but they're not--at least not at midnight after I've been on a plane all day).
So it's not a road I'm on, but a street, an avenue, a hotel lobby, a chilly marble convention center bench. Vision is limited here, especially when the weather demands I stay hidden under an umbrella. Furthermore, I need to dodge in and out of herds of hurried people scuttling here and there (if you think herds don't scuttle you haven't seen a crowd emerge from a NYC subway at 7:30 in the morning). This doesn't leave me much of an opportunity to stop (if I do, I shall surely be run over by boot or wheel) and look, gaze (stare) and people watch. Forget walking to meditate or ponder or relax. If I don't have a purpose, a concrete (ha) destination to which I speed walk without making eye contact with anyone, I shall surely be run over by high-heeled shoe or wheel.
It really doesn't help that in the only chunk of free time I have while I am in this city, it is raining. Hard. And it's windy. And I am really cursing myself for bringing a heavy laptop.
So a few questions:

• Why is it that I can get a hair dryer and in-room coffee in a no name motel in Gallup New Mexico ($59 per night) and not have the same small conveniences in a major hotel in midtown Manhattan ($229 per night)?
• What major hotel DOESN'T have in-room wifi? The one I'm paying handsomely for in midtown Manhattan.
• Why does it really take soooo long for luggage to make it from the airplane to the carousel? It's not as if the baggage handlers are bringing them one by one, on foot. I also want to know why "they" sound the red light alert and start the carousel running and bags don't appear for another 20 minutes? I'm really not in the mood to be teased like that after a 6 hour flight.
• Why do I always forget that many, many people smoke? It always takes leaving California for me to be reminded of this fact. I forget I am in a city that believes a non-smoking hotel room (for $229 per night) is smoke free while next door to people who seem to be chain smoking all night long. Give me a hair dryer, in-room coffee and something to get the smell of stale cigarette smell out of my clothes.

Travel this fall has been fraught with grim reminders that all is not bouncing yellow daisies on the prairie. I'd like to know what the equivalent is here in New York City though. I'm sure there is something I can stop and look at--just need to walk around a little more to find it.
I did find an excellent cup of coffee, however, at a no-name walk-in joint.
Onward...

An Irish Blessing, 1933-2007

It is appropriate that I take this space to say a few words in memory of my mother. She is, afterall, the inspiration for Penelope Road. A woman's journey that wasn't so much about looking for her Odysseus, but about finding her way back home, back to a place of origin. Her peripatetic life, the journeys she embarked upon, the obstacles she encountered, the temptations she faced, the distance she traveled all fly in the face of convention. She did what Penelope could not do. In her journey, as one would expect, she lost, too, as well as gained. She suffered and she celebrated. She sacrificed, she compromised--and not always with desired results. She raged against what life threw at her and she silently, passively accepted when the rage came back an empty echo. And until the very end, she raged against the dying of the light. She did so with a bellowing voice until she figured out how to get off the ride that was tiring her so much.
(MPB, high school senior picture, 1951)

It is not her death, however, I wish to remember here. It is her journey--as much as I know of it, anyway. Her life spanned a good amount of geography: Nebraska, Northern California, Alabama, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, back to Northern California, back to Massachusetts, Southern California, Northern California, Southern California, Arizona, Southern California, and, finally, back to Massachusetts. Other than a couple of wild weekends in Tijuana in her early 20s, she never left the country. Her reasons for moving from place to place may not have been always dignified or rational or right. In her flaws, she was, as we all are, a complex person, leaving her life without a real opportunity to resolve or connect or forgive or be forgiven. The walls she constructed around parts of herself will always remain large and impermeable to me. In her brightest qualities, she has left behind a legacy of voice, unconventional choices, self-assertion, independence, rebelliousness, and the firm belief that the world was hers to live in as she chose. This was her estate. This is my inheritance:

She taught me that Janis Joplin, Joan Baez, Puccini, Mozart, and Cole Porter were musical geniuses. She taught me "if you don't ask, you don't get." She taught me I could do anything I wanted, but I should never underestimate the power of work and effort. She taught me that I, and only I, am in control of my life--I determine what happens. And I am responsible for the outcomes, no matter what they should be. She taught me that books matter. That music matters. That art matters. That knowledge matters. That caring matters. That citizenship matters. That the open road is the best gift you can give yourself. She taught me to be fearless when I am afraid, to be undaunted when I am daunted. She taught me what it means to journey. She taught me how to go, how to expand.

She never did find her way home. But this spring, I'll take her there and with a shot of Irish whiskey, I'll make her a part of Nebraska once again and return to the earth what it once gave up, and toast:
May the road rise above you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
May the rain fall softly upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Rest,
In Peace,
At last.

Distance traveled: untold, immeasureable miles.
Time: 74 years, 2 weeks, 3 days.

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...