scouring rain
The trip back is always less exciting than the trip there. However, in this case, the trip home has been exciting in ways I did not know a trip could be. The trek begins early Wednesday morning in Toronto and takes me across the border around noon. I make it across with very little hassle which is a complete surprise given my other border crossing experiences. I make it across Michigan and land in Muskegon in time to take a little nap before my show at 8. The plan is to sleep a few hours, do the show and then start driving again, that's the plan. However, my plan is scratched in favor of a series of showers, cups of coffee and naps.
After the show, I come back to the hotel, shower and pack. I sip some lobby coffee and I am ready to go. Somewhere in those few moments, I think it would be a good idea to get a few hours of sleep just so I will be rested for the long drive, so I set the alarm for midnight and I drift off. Midnight rolls around, I get up, drink some more lobby coffee, take another shower and then I start to convince myself that sleeping until 3 would be best if I want to avoid rush hour traffic. I wake up at three. Take another shower, more lobby coffee and go right back to bed.
8 o'clock and I am out the door. I am as clean as I have ever been. The lobby coffee has worn the lining of my stomach to nothing and it burns but I am ready and rested. The next stop on this trip is to be a weird one and something that I try to avoid if at all possible when I am on the road. I am going to Moline, Illinois to visit the grave of my mother's father who died before my mother was born. Rain slows my progress across Illinois, but I get there, three hours late, but I get there. Standing at the gravesite, snapping photos of a grave of a man that I have never met and neither has my mother. It's a very surreal moment as I think about that math. My mother has never been here and she has never seen the grave of the man that she never knew as dad. Somewhere under his little white, marble-like tombstone is a man who gave me a tumor that almost killed me when I was 17. It's the same type of tumor that killed him when he was 30, the mystery of his death left unsolved until I had my little brush with death 40 years later. I don't feel anything about him. I never knew him. I have never heard stories of him as my mother never knew him to have stories to share. My only link to this man is genetic and the ones I share with him are not my favorite genes. But I feel sad in a strange way. I don't know if it's the tormented story of his death and the life of my mother never knowing him or if I am just sad because his blood is my blood and I should feel a sense of pride as I stand here.
The grave stone is white, neglected and alone in a sea of other family plots. The Jones family apparently dies early in life and the Magendanzes live forever. Among them is a lone family member, his first name was Emanuel and I am pretty pleased with that. What a cool name for a grandfather to have. I wonder what his voice sounded like? I wonder if he was tall? Bald? Funny? I see that he was in the military, something else I didn't know to add to the rest of the information I don't know about him. In my head, I am trying to imagine that the people buried around him were his friends in life and they all chose to be buried here. I don't know if that is road dementia talking or if I am just hoping he had a great life and great friends. The date of his death is a shock as I add up all the figures. My mother's birth, his death, and conception. He died within days of conception. Ultimately his death would send my grandmother down a dark path of mental instability that lives with her today. What it did to my mother I have no idea, but I have a feeling that my relationship with my mother reflects many of the feelings she does have about not knowing her father.
It took two hours to find his grave in Moline and another six hours to get to Kansas City from there. I wasn't in a great mood when I got into town and the weather was still pretty sad. Even with close to 15 hours of pouring rain hitting my car at 70 miles an hour plus, the bird shit from Toronto is still caked on to the windshield and I am spending a lot of my driving time thinking about ways to get it off of there. It's annoying me.
I eat my last BBQ meal for a while and Adam and I head to his house, when I get there, I just crash on the couch. The rain is relentless and the thunderstorm over the city acts as a poweful lullaby and I sleep peacefully for hours.
The morning is more rain and it's really coming down. I have 14 hours of driving ahead of me and most of my plans for this trip have been blown. I had stops to make that are behind me now and I am feeling like shit for heading north when I wanted to head south. I have never diverted from my travel plans to view a single site and it has finally hit me what I have done. I am still beating myself up while I am loading up my car and I see the caked on bird shit. Then, it all goes away. The urge to visit my friends is something that I will have again and something I feel I will be able to do again. The visit to the grave was a first for my entire family and it was groundbreaking in ways that I am still not aware of yet. I guess I will know the true impact of what I have done when my mother sees the photos of her father's grave. A grave she has never seen ever. Of a man she never knew, ever. Of a place she has never been too, ever.
The dark menace of Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Idaho and Oregon highway is looming ahead of me and I know I must get to it, however, I don't feel ready to make the trip. I am not letting anything sink in from the past week and I feel that by the time I get home I will have too much to think about and I will have forgotten something. I hope not, there are some great memories from this trip and I met some wonderful people, but still, it is possible. One delicious memory can be tarnished by a tart one. The greatest adventures of all time are littered with misadventure but, perhaps those misadventures are what make it the great adventure it is. Maybe I won't scrape that bird shit off my window just yet, perhaps it's there as a powerful reminder for me. One so strong that not even the forces of mother nature can wash it away. A small white, marble-like reminder that has been left for me to use for reflection whenever I forget where I have been, who I have met and those that were left behind or couldn't make the trip themselves.
After the show, I come back to the hotel, shower and pack. I sip some lobby coffee and I am ready to go. Somewhere in those few moments, I think it would be a good idea to get a few hours of sleep just so I will be rested for the long drive, so I set the alarm for midnight and I drift off. Midnight rolls around, I get up, drink some more lobby coffee, take another shower and then I start to convince myself that sleeping until 3 would be best if I want to avoid rush hour traffic. I wake up at three. Take another shower, more lobby coffee and go right back to bed.
8 o'clock and I am out the door. I am as clean as I have ever been. The lobby coffee has worn the lining of my stomach to nothing and it burns but I am ready and rested. The next stop on this trip is to be a weird one and something that I try to avoid if at all possible when I am on the road. I am going to Moline, Illinois to visit the grave of my mother's father who died before my mother was born. Rain slows my progress across Illinois, but I get there, three hours late, but I get there. Standing at the gravesite, snapping photos of a grave of a man that I have never met and neither has my mother. It's a very surreal moment as I think about that math. My mother has never been here and she has never seen the grave of the man that she never knew as dad. Somewhere under his little white, marble-like tombstone is a man who gave me a tumor that almost killed me when I was 17. It's the same type of tumor that killed him when he was 30, the mystery of his death left unsolved until I had my little brush with death 40 years later. I don't feel anything about him. I never knew him. I have never heard stories of him as my mother never knew him to have stories to share. My only link to this man is genetic and the ones I share with him are not my favorite genes. But I feel sad in a strange way. I don't know if it's the tormented story of his death and the life of my mother never knowing him or if I am just sad because his blood is my blood and I should feel a sense of pride as I stand here.
The grave stone is white, neglected and alone in a sea of other family plots. The Jones family apparently dies early in life and the Magendanzes live forever. Among them is a lone family member, his first name was Emanuel and I am pretty pleased with that. What a cool name for a grandfather to have. I wonder what his voice sounded like? I wonder if he was tall? Bald? Funny? I see that he was in the military, something else I didn't know to add to the rest of the information I don't know about him. In my head, I am trying to imagine that the people buried around him were his friends in life and they all chose to be buried here. I don't know if that is road dementia talking or if I am just hoping he had a great life and great friends. The date of his death is a shock as I add up all the figures. My mother's birth, his death, and conception. He died within days of conception. Ultimately his death would send my grandmother down a dark path of mental instability that lives with her today. What it did to my mother I have no idea, but I have a feeling that my relationship with my mother reflects many of the feelings she does have about not knowing her father.
It took two hours to find his grave in Moline and another six hours to get to Kansas City from there. I wasn't in a great mood when I got into town and the weather was still pretty sad. Even with close to 15 hours of pouring rain hitting my car at 70 miles an hour plus, the bird shit from Toronto is still caked on to the windshield and I am spending a lot of my driving time thinking about ways to get it off of there. It's annoying me.
I eat my last BBQ meal for a while and Adam and I head to his house, when I get there, I just crash on the couch. The rain is relentless and the thunderstorm over the city acts as a poweful lullaby and I sleep peacefully for hours.
The morning is more rain and it's really coming down. I have 14 hours of driving ahead of me and most of my plans for this trip have been blown. I had stops to make that are behind me now and I am feeling like shit for heading north when I wanted to head south. I have never diverted from my travel plans to view a single site and it has finally hit me what I have done. I am still beating myself up while I am loading up my car and I see the caked on bird shit. Then, it all goes away. The urge to visit my friends is something that I will have again and something I feel I will be able to do again. The visit to the grave was a first for my entire family and it was groundbreaking in ways that I am still not aware of yet. I guess I will know the true impact of what I have done when my mother sees the photos of her father's grave. A grave she has never seen ever. Of a man she never knew, ever. Of a place she has never been too, ever.
The dark menace of Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Idaho and Oregon highway is looming ahead of me and I know I must get to it, however, I don't feel ready to make the trip. I am not letting anything sink in from the past week and I feel that by the time I get home I will have too much to think about and I will have forgotten something. I hope not, there are some great memories from this trip and I met some wonderful people, but still, it is possible. One delicious memory can be tarnished by a tart one. The greatest adventures of all time are littered with misadventure but, perhaps those misadventures are what make it the great adventure it is. Maybe I won't scrape that bird shit off my window just yet, perhaps it's there as a powerful reminder for me. One so strong that not even the forces of mother nature can wash it away. A small white, marble-like reminder that has been left for me to use for reflection whenever I forget where I have been, who I have met and those that were left behind or couldn't make the trip themselves.
posted by Daniel Loomis | 6:46 AM
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