Notes from the road

We're about halfway through our summer visits to family and friends. As we were driving across Missouri nearly a week ago, I tried to calculate the number of times we have made the drive between my husband's family's house in Oklahoma City to my parent's house in Indiana.  We've done this trip at least once a year, and many years twice, ever since we started dating. It takes 12 to 13 hours, depending on the number of stops and traffic situations.  The trip is long and flat.  The largest city on the route is St. Louis.  In some respects, the drive is restful because it is so familiar and predictable.  There's the exit for walnut bowls, the one for the world's largest rocking chair, the one for the enormous sheet metal cross.  We sometimes try to stop at the last/first Braum's, depending on the direction we are heading, in Missouri.  We have a contest to see who first spies the St. Louis Arch, the Gateway to the West.  We expect to have rain as we drive through the Ozarks. I felt a twinge of frustration when thinking about the many hours we have spent in the car without seeing much of the country, but there's something to be said for becoming familiar with a place, even if it is a stretch of highway.

My mom pointed out tonight, as we sat around comparing notes about accidents that we have seen, that it is really a little miraculous with as much driving as we do, that we haven't been involved in more accidents.  We did have two incidents on this trip: once we nearly got rear-ended in a traffic jam, and another time my husband sneezed while driving and when he looked up, had to swerve into another lane to avoid moving a slow moving grandpa in a pickup.  Our car, laden with a car-top carrier and plastic bins on the back hitch tray, fishtailed a couple of times before my husband got it back under control.  My daughter asked, "Why did you do that, Daddy?" as if he had swerved on purpose.  A flood of adrenalin made my hands shake for a few minutes afterward. But perhaps because we have 8 guardian angels on duty, we were all just shaken and nothing was damaged.  So many stories don't end that way.

Going back to the theme of familiar places: yesterday we drove by the house where my siblings and I grew up and then cruised through the town where I went to high school.  Seeing the old home place, a nondescript two story home, was an odd emotional experience.  We stopped at the end of the driveway to stare for a few minutes, and I wanted both to hide and to proclaim a bit of ownership in the history of this house.  A man I didn't recognize mowing the lawn at the house next door appeared suspicious, but a friendly wave seemed to satisfy his curiosity. But it didn't take away the feeling of trespassing that nibbled at my conscience.  We were uninvited gawkers who felt possessive. That was MY room.  My rabbits lived behind that shed.  I posed for pictures with my new fiance in front that THAT garage. I wonder if the bricks still betray evidence of my sister's little car accident.  Once spindly trees that my dad planted are now shading the roof. But that's not our truck in the driveway...

After surreptiously snapping a few photos to reminisce over later, we drove on through the town to get to my aunt and uncle's house.  A lot of things remain the same: the drive-through soft-serve ice cream place still had customers at the picnic tables.  The Lions' Club was advertising a barbecue. The main street still has houses with handpainted signs selling tomatoes and miniature horses.  But Main Street is now interrupted by a stop light and a McDonald's.  This town was small enough when I was growing up that you always were looking out to see someone you knew.  It hasn't grown so much that I didn't still half crane my neck to see and half hide so as not to be seen by someone I knew.  My 20 year high school reunion should be this year, but I'm more than a little relieved that no one has planned it so that I don't have to feel guilty about not going or compelled by curiosity to attend.  Someone said earlier in the week that Facebook could make reunions obsolete: you  could find out about your classmates' personal lives fairly easily if you wanted to without getting dressed up for a reception.

But nothing beats a personal visit, which is why we keep making these drives. It's nice to see people on their home turf.  People behave differently when they are on their own territory, and not being polite at someone else's home or a neutral meeting ground. Although I love for family and friends to visit me, I also enjoy seeing them in their native habitat.  So we keep showing up, eating their food, and creating piles of dirty laundry. I like to think they appreciate the company.