Eastward Ho

I mark the endless miles through the continual and regular distance markers flying by the car, the eclectic procession of music chosen as concert by my iPod passing my ears, or through the consistent meanderings of the book I listen to, that crosses back and forth across the past. Moments of freedom and elation, punctuated by the tang of farm smells and dusty sunlight passing into my open windows, slip into periods of boredom and the dull numbness of back, mind and even bladder. But I carve my way across the eastern portion of the continent, returning home to my much missed family, carrying a variety of things new; new job, new car, new clothes and new excitement. Miles pass by in names, some warm and welcoming as something familiar and homely, as if I grew up in the midst of dry, crackling corn fields or gray-tinged coal mining towns, and others strange but adventurous, like the prairie cities of old that grew out of the river cracks in the landscape like sidewalk weeds.
I watch the unfolding landscape in reverse from West to East; the yellow and dry waves of plains dusted in gold and amber, the yellow, knobby clay hills of Missouri, rolling, verdant hills of Ohio, hidden West Virginian crevices of wood, river and stone, the dark, deep woods of Pennsylvania that seem ripped from Eastern Europe with both its dark romance, and sunny terror, and finally the fruited forests of New Jersey. There are the towns of middle America; Emma, Effingham, Terre Haute, Kansas (Ohio), Wheeling, Breezewood, Hershey and Alpha. The rivers; Missouri, Mississippi, Ohio, Mohongahela, Sesquehanna, Lehigh, Delaware and Raritan. Or even the fast food, as Hardees gives way to Bob Evans, a Southern encroaching Church's chicken and finally Roy Rogers. Of course the familiar golden arches - maybe a little less golden with out the trans fat - mark the highway like the milemarkers.
The trip awakens a variety of emotions that come and go fleetingly, like the heaps of aromas that float across America's highway. Some sweet and lingering, others pungent and melancholic. I love the adventure and freedom of the road trip, or the creeping nipping, that lurks in the corners of my mind, that I could perhaps find a home among many of the plains, hills or mountain villages. Of course there are flashes of anger at my fellow companions that ride the river of rock, however these dull as I become part of my course, moving with the currents and eddies that is Highway 70.
The exhilaration of my trip, yes including the moments of raw emotion I scream out along with the blaring music, turns to pure maintenance, trying to just keep moving along, wishing to speed things up. But when the trees and the roadside attractions begin to be familiar my heart has already jumped to the 'final destination' on my GPS unit. Home. And with a numb and aching body, and full bladder again, I arrive into the arms of my girls and come home. The weariness, dust and lethargy of the road shed away as the feelings of independence and wanderlust cower back behind the love that begins with the hug of little girl hands and spreads in a flush across my cheeks. These girls, this home, with all their twists, turns and hidden treasures, are adventure enough. I may not mark this trip in milemarkers or rivers, and my wish is to slow down and stop time rather than to speed along, but I love the road trip all the same.
HRP