I did my first solo road trip in 1980 over Labor Day. I was 21. I had a brand new 1980 Mustang, a few dollars, and was itching to drive. My friends, who couldn’t go with me, were appalled. Alone! What about serial killers? My parents didn’t blink an eye. I grew up doing 3000-mile road trips. Of course, I would want to take the car out and about.
I had a few dollars but not a lot of dollars. I plotted the trip carefully. Milwaukee to Huntington WV where I could stay with my best friend from high school.
Oh, what a glorious drive it was. I was young. I was single. I had a gleaming new car. I had 8-tracks of my favorite music and I had no particular time I was expected to be anywhere.
The sun is hot on my skin, but a cool wind sends my hair drifting on its currents.
Perfect day at the beach. Blissfully warm. Blissfully refreshing breeze. Silly frou frou drink in my hand.
Frozen strawberry lemonade with vodka, whipped cream, and 3 cherries. But no umbrella. Alas.
It’s my second one of the day. The first one lasted nearly three hours.
I began this perfect beach day at 10:15. Procured the vacation-only drink at about 11. At two, we trundled up to the beach bar for blackened flounder and French fries with cocktail sauce. And another drink. I told the bartender twice as much strawberry lemonade, half as much booze. He puts it in a 24 oz white Styrofoam cup. I take most of it back to the beach with me.
We, my friend and I, sit there until the shadows began to lengthen and the sun moves behind us. I can feel old Sol’s heat on my shoulders and back. I feel the stress dripping off me into the sand where the ocean took it far away.
The sound of the surf, the sound of shorebirds, a small child giggling in the distance somewhere.
The Wisconsin night (early morning?) is -4F factoring windchill and the snow is falling to the beat of the windshield wipers. It falls across the road in arcs, not sticking, just blowing around. A metaphor? Perhaps. I am driving too fast, but the music is so good and I’m feeling lucky. Might be there’s a full moon behind the clouds.
So much for too cold to snow. I’m cruising down I-94 East from Okauchee Lake headed towards Milwaukee. The year is 1981 or so. I’m listening to Rosanne Cash on 8-track. This whole album could be the soundtrack of my life for this year and the previous two. 7 Year Ache has a nicer ring than 3 Year Pain in the Ass.
Young. I would have been 22 or thereabouts. Tall, thin, 6 feet of hair and legs, some say a knockout, but an absurdly assured insecure one. I was a contradiction always. I came across as having moxy and confidence, but in reality I was just a 22-year-old girl trying to find my way.
The heater in the 1980 Mustang can’t keep up with -4F and my breath fogs the windshield. I am wiping the windshield with the sleeve of my coat and singing at the top of my lungs. I am steering with my left hand and claaping my thigh to the beat of the song.
“Girls in the bar thinking ‘who is this guy.'”
Who is this guy? Forty years later I still think about him. My Baby Thinks He’s a Train is a better choice and I switch tracks on the 8-track, trying to get close to that song. I’ve memorized what song is on what track and where I need to start to get to a song I like.
“Man, he’s hard to take. What you supposed to do when you’re baby thinks he a train? “
I see a car in the median, I slow, knowing it’s a trooper. I’m doing a sedate 55 when I pass him. He leaves me be. Yeah, I’m lucky tonight. Headed home, alone.
The whole car is shaking from the vibration of the shitty stereo blaring Rosanne Cash singing under the tutelage of Rodney Crowell. Geniuses, the both of them.
It takes one to know one, baby I know how you feel You got your hunger And some problems that are real
And you’re dealing with some demons Who are driving you insane And I’ve seen them drag you screaming Down the hallways of your brain.
But wait! Thats a Kristofferson song. Sung by the great Emmylou and Rodney.
Evidently, I have a thing for damaged men. Who play guitar.
You act like you were just born tonight Face down in a memory but feeling all right So who does your past belong to today? Baby, you don’t say nothing when you’re feeling this way
Face down in a memory, but feeling all right. Yeah…. Feeling all right.
It’s -4F and I’m singing myself home on a frigid Wisconsin night. And 40 years later, I’m sitting in a converted barn remembering the cold of that night, the heat of the music, and the attention of damaged men. Listening to rain fall on a tin roof wondering if the snow and cold and heat will come again.
I’m in the Madrid international airport. There is a cacophony of languages. Very little of it is in English.
I’ve been chilling in the VIP lounge which is very quiet. (For 34 euros you too can be a VIP!). I kept checking the monitor for my gate assignment. Nothing. I called the airline. It hasn’t been assigned yet.
This airport is huge. Lots of people. Lots of languages. I have no idea what terminal to be in much less which hallway. The woman at customs indicated she thought Terminal 4 gates in area J or K. I’m getting a wee bit anxious. I leave the tranquil lounge for teeming crowds, nonstop PA announcements and crying children. I fight my way through. Pardone me, por favor. I check monitor after monitor. Finally I found it. I’m in the right terminal, wrong hallway. I head for Gate K 80. Finally I get there. Here. I am here. I collapse into an empty bank of seats. I’m the first one here.
Then. Out of nowhere. Off in the distance somewhere someone is loudly whistling Camp Town Ladies. Stephen Foster in the Madrid Airport. I have an instant ear worm. (and now you do too!). Doodah indeed.
I’m in the Madrid international airport. There is a cacophony of languages. Very little of it is in English.
W. Va. Fur and Root 