If I am repaired, can we meet againfor the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?
Friday, November 30, 2012
The Big Trip, Part One
Sunday morning, the eleventh of November, I left the frost-nipped tranquility of my little Tennessee farm for sunny Southern California, land of my birth.
Plans for this prodigal return were set in motion way back in June, by my brother and I. It began as a semi-simple, super-secret Thanksgiving Day surprise, geared mostly toward my mother. But by the time the leaves had turned, our scheme encompassed Mom’s birthday as well, on the sixteenth, a celebration I haven’t been present at since ‘96. Eighteen days total. The most time I have ever voluntarily stepped away from home and work.
I rented a vehicle. Something foreign, comfy and dependable. Dixie rode shotgun. She navigated and poured coffee and stuff. I held the wheel. We drove I-40, the straighter and wider and smoother version of the legendary Route 66. You see a lot of the old highway, snaking along beside its titanic successor, a worn out frontage road. I can’t imagine ever getting any kicks on Route 66. It looks like a real bitch to drive.