Tuesday 24 September -- It is a gigantic pleasure to me to wake from sound slumber
in a firm bed, snuggled into a puffy comforter, to the sounds of children
getting ready for the day. I stayed in
bed, out of everyone’s way, until the noises without made clear that everyone
was downstairs. Washed, brushed and
slippered, I joined bits of the family (varying bits, as kids leapt up to
collect books and swooped back for another sip of cider) for fruit and
fresh-baked, again in a cast-iron skillet, scones.
Once everyone was off to the orthodontist, D.J. and I
dressed in our fancy clothes and headed to the Bell Mansion for tea. We chose the Music Room and then wandered the
Duchess and Victorian rooms to select our favorite tea pots and tea cups, to be
filled by our gracious proprietor with our preferred teas. It was a lovely meal, and we lingered over
it, “gossiping gently,” as Betty Neels would say.
Then I was back in the car, with about 400 miles to go to
Detroit, almost all big, lightly traveled interstate route 80 through western
Pennsylvania and northern The
speed limits were mostly 70mph, and good thing, too. That lingering over tea put me off schedule a
bit, and I did not want to descend on K.R. and family at midnight.
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| I rarely descend on anyone, anytime, without a little gift. |
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| These Pennsylvanian chickens provided one (six, actually) for K.R. and family. |
Some people don’t like super-highways, I know, but I’m not
among them. Their efficiency is great,
and they typically don’t have too many billboards, and the view is usually of
natural landscapes, rather than of the strip malls and tract houses often on
display on secondary highways. Route 80
offered me a hilltop windfarm, which I think rather beautiful. Those tall, slender white windmills look like
other-worldly praying mantis; spooky and beautiful. They’re a bit like something my friend Stephen Butler would create as art: unknown yet
oddly familiar; eerie and comforting; expected but out-of-place.
Of course, one tries not to dwell over-long on the aesthetic
and psychic qualities of windfarms when driving 77mph, you know?
After a hundred miles or so, the hills vanished and I
crossed into Ohio and a trail of pretty, flat cornfields dotted with little
white barns with perfect roofs. The
traffic stayed light through Erie and Sandusky counties, and I crossed the
world-famous Cuyahoga River – twice in ten minutes! Somewhere around Huron, Ohio, the local radio
station offered up a weather report that included predictions for wave
heights. I was pole-axed for a moment –
waves are part of oceans, and the ocean is 500 miles in one direction and 2,500
in the other. The idea of waves big
enough to make the news happening on a lake is alien to me, so that’s another
perspective-shift.
And it might not have require that moment’s flummox-ment if
I could have seen the lakes from the
highway. This route 80 scoops right along
the southern shore of Lake Erie, but a bit too far south to allow a water
view. Felt cheated, a bit. I do love water.
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| This water was, I believe, in Pennsylvania. But maybe Ohio... |
Ohio did offer some mild excitement in road signs. You know the big highway signs that announce
attractions, gas stations, lodging and restaurants available at the next
exit? On the Ohio Turnpike, some of
those signs included the notice, “Directions at toll booth.” So if you want to visit the whatever museum,
or the whomever birthplace, take the next exit, stop at the toll booth, and ask
the toll-taker how to get there. That’s
not a service we get with EZ Pass.
The signs for the Blue Heron Service Plaza offered three fast-food restaurants I’d never
heard of: Red Burrito, Gloria Jean’s
Coffee (I may have seen these, actually) and Man-something-Italians. Yay!
Not all of America is limited to Sbarro, McDonalds, Burger
King, Starbucks, etc. etc.
At the western edge of Lake Erie I turned north, headed for
Detroit, and turned on the GPS to direct me through that city. Its immediate advice was that I make a legal
u-turn as soon as possible. What does
the GPS have against Detroit? I turned
it off again, and 30 miles later it resigned itself to journeying through
Rock-and-Motor City.
I got to K.R.’s an hour or so ahead of (revised) schedule,
and she was in the shower. Her tween daughter greeted me through the kitchen window and welcomed me in, and we
had a great conversation about school and grandparents. I love meeting all these marvelous kids
(though actually I first met this one 11 or 12 years ago, when she was a babe
in arms, but her younger brother was entirely new to me). K.R. and I haven’t seen each other in over
ten years, and have kept in only sporadic touch, and you would never have
guessed that if you’d heard us chatting away about careers and real estate and
relatives. This part of this trip,
connecting or re-connecting with people I don’t know as well as I’d like, or
don’t see as often as I’d like, is a valuable and rich element of the
adventure.
Still happy as can be, I fell asleep in my younger hostess’
pink bedroom, surrounded by ballerinas.
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