The Life in My Years

“Leaving home was one of the easiest big decisions I’ve ever made. But once I left home, continuing the journey until it reached some kind of sensible conclusion or fully played itself out, was another matter – one of the hardest things I’ve ever attempted.” ~ William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways.

‘Just drive,’ I tell myself. ‘You’ll get over it – again.’

I’m a month into the road trip and the next stop is New Harmony, Indiana.

I hadn’t planned on New Harmony when I started this trip. In fact I hadn’t planned on most of my destinations with the exception of Omaha, where I landed, and from where I’ll depart back for home.

I decided on New Harmony only a week ago while staying in a Best Western in Hannibal, Missouri. I’d already planned the next two stops. Two nights in Springfield, Illinois to visit the Lincoln Presidential Library and then two nights in Marshall, Illinois as a base to go take in the Parke County (Indiana) Covered Bridge Festival.

Where to after that?

Fuck if I know.

Stuck.

With a mind to drive into Kentucky and then touch West Virginia, I spread some maps out on the bed. I’m not averse to using Google but spreading out a paper map or three provides a bigger picture.

Part of the goal of this excursion has been to hunt for some names that stand out. I’ve touched Nimrod, Ten Strike, Athens (not Greece), Paris (certainly not France), and Virginia (not the state). Scanning the maps I saw, Princeton (likely not the university), Poseyville, Mt. Vernon (not New York) and Geneva (absolutely not Switzerland). I found the town of Santa Claus which I considered for half a moment before trashing that notion. I can only stomach Christmas for three weeks max and certainly not in October. Hell, in some of the places I’ve been, the retailers are already jamming Christmas down our throats and it’ll only get worse.

There, in the southwest corner of Indiana was New Harmony.

Harmony is a good thing. Right? New Harmony, contemporary harmony, any old harmony; one can never get enough harmony. New Harmony it was. Not only did the name attract me, but its location, on the shore of the historic Wabash River, helped close the deal.

Lodging was an easy find. There it was, The Old Rooming House. The Old Rooming House, in New Harmony. It doesn’t get any more seductive than that. The price per night was a mere sixty dollars. There was no online reservation system so I phoned the number and got Jim. Jim was chatty and started giving me a tour of New Harmony even before I told him I was looking for a room. Was I talking to the innkeeper or the tourist bureau?

When I made the reservation Jim told me he only takes checks or cash. That was fine with me. He also instructed me what to do if he wasn’t there when I arrived. He explained that around the side of the building near the little parking area there would be a chalkboard which would have my name and room number. Just walk in and make myself at home. Final payment could be made by leaving the check or the cash in my room if he wasn’t around. There was a lot of trust involved. When I told a friend of mine about the arrangement she was convinced that Jim was a fool. I felt otherwise. Jim trusts in the goodness of people and lives by that, and if someone takes advantage it’s more the perpetrator’s problem.

October 10th. Marshall, Illinois.
I’m hitting the road for New Harmony this morning. The straight shot from Marshall to New Harmony is a two hour, 102 mile southbound drive on Illinois State Route 1. There’s rarely any enchantment in the straight shot. I’ve plotted the meandering route which I’ll adhere to until a road sign, a landmark or an impulse compels me to stray.

There wasn’t much in the way of relaxation last night at the Relax Inn, in Marshall. A group of old boys had spent the better part of the night and early morning hours gathered around a pickup in the parking lot, drinking beer and talking loudly about fishing, the government and sex – mostly about sex. One, who was regularly coughing up a lung between sentences, was particularly absorbed with anal sex. I suppose that when you’re talking about getting screwed in the ass, the subject could either be carnal or governmental. The more beer that went down, the more the volume went up.

I could’ve stuck my head out the door and asked them to please keep it down but they seemed like the types who would respond by raising the volume. The clock read somewhere past two when they called it a night and I finally found sleep.

***

I’m groggy and cranky this morning. On my way to the motel breakfast room, I pass anal sex guy who’s sitting on the tailgate of his pickup, head and shoulders slumped, staring down into a bottle of beer. Had he been here all night or was he just out before the rest of the boys, enjoying a quiet moment to contemplate his intellectual awesomeness last night?

***

The breakfast room smells of burnt coffee. I stand in the doorway and take in the depressing sight. The usual cereal dispensers stocked with the usual Fruit Loops, Raisin Bran, and cornflakes. There’s the usual counter top cooler stocked with the usual mini-yogurts. Next to the cooler there’s the usual array of mini-muffins, always blueberry. They’re laid out next to the usual stack of mini-bagels. The usual pitchers of orange juice and apple juice sit beside the usual basket filled with the usual herbal teas. Motel breakfast rooms are really great for the first few nights – and then they’re not – great.

Fuck this. I’m packing up the car, checking out and having breakfast at the diner downtown. After last night, I need some comfort in the form of eggs, chicken fried steak and biscuits drowning in a thick fatty sausage gravy. It’s the breakfast of champions until you die of cardiac arrest.

Sunday morning in small town Illinois and just about everything on the main drag is closed. That’s the way of things in the small town heartland. Unless there’s a WalMart or a mini-mart around, plan on doing the shopping on Saturday. Coming from San Francisco, I’ve been caught unawares a time or two, assuming that, just as in the Bay Area, everything will be open for business on Sunday.

***

The essentials in the small town diner section of any restaurant supply company surely must include items such as sturdy white ceramic coffee mugs, homespun signage for the walls, acres of linoleum tiles, waitresses programed to know when the said sturdy white ceramic mug has gone below half empty, and of course, a varied selection of old timers wearing sweat stained ball caps, who are designed to sit endlessly at the counter and swap stories and bullshit, and give the waitress a hard time.

After thousands of miles on the road and stops at countless diners I don’t think I’ve come across one that didn’t have yarn spinning mossbacks telling stretchers and griping about the government. That’s not criticism, just an observation. It can be enjoyable and amusing to hear the banter and even more enjoyable to be invited into the conversation.

***

I’ve taken a stool at the empty counter at The Marshall Family Restaurant. As if to corroborate my theory, I see a group of seven of the requisite mossbacks in the far corner sharing some manly gossip. When I walk in, they pause briefly in their conversation to size up the stranger in town. It’s something I’ve grown used to. The looks usually include a few cautious nods and maybe a “Mornin’ how ya doin?”

The waitress is young. From her looks, maybe a student at Lakeland, the local college. She doesn’t introduce herself in a perky voice and she doesn’t say, “I’ll be taking care of you this morning.” She skips the bubbly bullshit and walks over with the coffee pot and a mug, says good morning and pours, and then hands me a menu.

My heart is set on that chicken fried steak but something called a Chicago Style Skillet; eggs on top of bacon and onions, on top of hashbrowns speaks to me. A side order of sausage chimes in.

There’s not much to distinguish The Marshall Family Restaurant. It’s an airy diner with a black and white checkerboard floor. The tables and chairs are plain and simple. From where I’m sitting at the counter I look up and see an old bicycle relic mounted on the wall above a refrigerator that at one time probably stocked the compulsory “homemade” cream pies, but for a lonely carton of milk is empty. The same wall is graced with a pair of Mexican sombreros. An old bass guitar hangs on an opposing wall. I suppose the decor is all related to something. Or nothing.

Over in the corner the loyal order of mossbacks have long finished their meals and are sipping coffee and jawboning about everything from politics to the fortunes and misfortunes of the local high school athletic teams. Occasionally one of the old boys calls something out to the young waitress, trying to get a reaction from her while causing guffaws all around the table. She either ignores the remark or fires a returning salvo that causes more guffaws and maybe earns the provocateur a good natured punch in the shoulder from one of his buddies.

When I’m done with breakfast the waitress refills my coffee and asks me where I’m from. They always know when you’re not from wherever you are. “San Francisco,” I reply without the trepidation that my answer might be met with a look of disdain. I figure she’s young enough that the Midwest animus towards Godless, libtard San Francisco hasn’t percolated too deeply into her psyche yet.

I tell her that I’m on a road trip and I’m staying in Marshall as a base to visit the Parke County Covered Bridge Festival.

“I wish I could see the festival,” she says.

She asks me about my trip and I tell her I’ve been on the road for a month with a couple weeks yet to go. She asks if I’ve been out of the country and I tell her I’ve been to Mexico a few times and Italy many times.

In a yearning voice she tells me that she’d like to be able to travel. I guess this is the part in the movie where the old guy asks the younger woman if she wants to come along on the trip. She throws down her apron, quits her job and says to the visitor, “Drive me to my place and I’ll pack a bag.” And so the adventure begins. Maybe they rob a bank or commit a few murders or just get their laughs by harassing regular people.

Instead I leave ten bucks for the breakfast and a five dollar tip.

***

My morning routine always begins with a stop at a mini-mart to get a bag of ice for the cooler. No ice in the freezer section, and I didn’t see the usual big chest in front of the store. I go to the check out and fall in behind a guy who’s fumbling around with his phone. The woman at the register harrumphs at him, brusquely waves him aside and motions me forward.

“Do you have ice?”

“Yep, sure do.” A long, almost awkward pause. “Small or large, honey?”

I pause for a moment, thrown off by the informality. “Small.”

“That’ll be a dollar and ninety-nine, honey.”

I give her the “dollar and ninety-nine,” and she steps from behind the counter. “Come on out with me, honey, and I’ll get you the bag.”

I follow her out the front and around to the side where the locked ice chest is hidden. The woman unlocks the chest, opens it, reaches in, and hands me the bag. “Here you go honey.”

“Thanks.”

As I walk away she calls, “Have a nice day, darlin.”

I wave without turning around, “Thanks. You do the same.”

Honey’s and darlin’s hurled at perfect strangers don’t normally play well in the Bay Area but I don’t take offense – even when I get honey’ed or darlin’ed in the Bay Area. It’s a harmless, regional/generational thing that, in the grand scheme, is harmless. I guess it’s different when a man calls a woman “honey.” That’s when there’s an unwanted motive behind the word that goes beyond just being friendly.

***

On the road it’s a litany of small towns with small town names that all had some meaning when the towns were platted. Snyder, Walnut Prairie, West Union and West York. I’m still in Illinois, following the course of the Wabash, which forms the border between Illinois, the Prairie State, and Indiana, the Hoosier State. At Gordon, I detour off of Route 1 towards Palestine; no, not that Palestine. How does a place in the middle of the American prairie get named Palestine? Seems a French explorer by the name of John LaMotte passed through the area in the 17th century and the place reminded him of “the land of milk and honey.” The town names are usually much more interesting than anything you see driving through.

After Heathsville and Russellville I come to the large town of Vincennes, Indiana, population 16,000.

The history of Vincennes, the oldest town in Indiana, goes back to the early 18th century when it was part of New France. From its infancy as a fur trading post, Vincennes was transformed into a military post in 1732 by a French military officer named Francois Marie Bissot–Sieur de Vincennes. When the fur trade eventually died, or the fur bearing animals were trapped into local extinction, the residents turned to agriculture.

When the French lost the French and Indian War, the area was ceded to the British. During the American Revolution, Lieutenant Colonel George R. Clark, leading a small revolutionary army, captured Vincennes in 1779. Following the revolution, the area was racked by conflict between the whites and the native population. That war ended with predictable results.

That’s the white man’s history. The history of the first residents, the Native Americans, goes back centuries before.

***

It’s at Vincennes that I decide to do some off the route exploring. French Lick is out of my way but as a lifelong NBA fan I feel the need to go visit the birthplace of Larry Bird.

Just the other side of Vincennes, I switch on the radio hoping for football but instead I get a phone in program called The Jesus Christ Show. I’m disappointed to find out that Jesus Christ is only the subject and not the host – because I’ve got a few pointed questions I’d like to pose to the Savior.

The show is a syndicated program out of Los Angeles, hosted by a soft spoken guy named Neil Saavedra. Unlike most of the God radio shows I’ve been getting in the Midwest, Saavedra isn’t a fire and brimstone, high handed, nationalist nut. He actually seems like the kind of guy I wouldn’t mind debating religion with.

***

Bruceville, Indiana, population 469, and home of the Big Peach. The Big Peach is, well, a 20 foot tall peach that sits in the middle of a big lawn next to a miniature version of the Washington Monument. The structures front a big produce market.

The odd pairing was built in 1954 by Wilbur and Doris Yates as a tribute to the Trylon and Perisphere, two futuristic structures built for the 1939 New York World’s Fair. What makes the Big Peach even more odd than just a giant stone fruit next to a little Washington Monument is that the originals at the fair were neither the Washington Monument nor a peach. I suppose that maybe Wilbur and Doris got a wild hair after having too much peach wine.

***

It’s at Bruceville, that I pull over for a rest and some deliberation. Desolation is setting in. I feel like I’m hitting the wall. I’ve been away from home for a month. I’m tired and I’m wondering just what in the fuck I’m doing. While I’m not on a strict timetable, the loose plan is to drive for another two weeks. Right now two weeks could just as well be two centuries.

I’m tired of the diners, the motels, the canned stew, canned chili, and microwaved dinners. I feel like I’ve seen the same plastic breakfast room at every motel and I also feel fortunate that I haven’t come away from any of those motels with lice.

I’m over it with the right wing radio shows and the hundreds of Trump signs and the ‘Fuck Biden’ signs that grow out of the cornfields like pernicious weeds. Hey Midwest. You want Trump? Take him, you deserve each other. And as for the cornfields, I’m fucking tired of them too. Right now I just want to find a magical door that I can walk through, and into my living room so that I can hug my wife and my dog.

Looking at a map, I see that I’m only 90 miles from Indianapolis. This is my best chance to call the whole thing off, drive to Indianapolis, make a reservation for a flight home and have a steak at St. Elmo’s. My dad’s old saying, “there’s no fool like an old fool,” comes to mind.

Deep breath. Reboot. Sure, go to Indy and the legacy of this last day will be a fleeting memory of a good steak and lifelong self loathing for bailing on the journey.

This isn’t the first time I’ve hit the wall. It happened in Duluth, Minnesota at the Oktoberfest and again in Osseo, Wisconsin, sitting outside of a joint called Jamie’s Last Resort, the self-proclaimed “home of warm beer and cold women.”

‘Just drive,’ I tell myself. ‘You’ll get over it – again.’‘

Part of a series of posts that can all be found in the category, Road Trip Midwest America