Seein' things that I may never see again... - Willie Nelson
We're on the road this week, visiting family. It's a trip we've made a bunch of times, changing routes as family members change places. However, the trip to Florida has been the same route all along, with a few changes like the Kokomo bypass around its bypass--yay!--and the never-ending road construction that makes things less convenient for residents of areas but faster for those coming from Somewhere Else on their way to Somewhere even farther Else, where they can groan because the path they've taken offers "nothing to do" and "nowhere to go."
Oops, got lost in my own agenda for a minute there. Anyway, it's an easy, nice drive to where we go in Florida. We know where crosses sit in fields along the way--serving as a promise to some and a threat to others. We have eaten, we swear, in every Cracker Barrel along the way. Duane points at different places as we go through Louisville, and sometimes we take an exit to renew memories. "Wyandotte's right there. It cost 50 cents and we'd walk all the way there."
Wyandotte Park is still there, but the pool he remembers is not. Like Miller Pool in Peru, it's from another time and it's too bad it's gone. Too bad.
We talk about going to Kingfish to eat and him telling our youngest that his frog legs looked like little people legs. Jock couldn't eat them then, so Duane did. I don't think he did it on purpose, but 40 years later, we're still accusing him of it.
There are points of dread on this trip. Two of them used to be Kokomo's myriad stoplights and the nightmare of merging onto 465 that comes with spending one's life on country roads where my biggest complaint is that people don't stop at stop signs and occasionally drive 22 mph in the middle of the road. Then there's Nashville; it always rains when we drive through--although it was only a sprinkle this time--and it has so much traffic that there aren't enough roads to stuff the cars onto.
But back we go to the things we recognize that we look forward to. The Welcome to... signs are always a pleasure--one more state down! Shortly after the sign comes the welcome center to the new state. We missed Tennessee's this time--which meant we were talking and/or no one had to go to the bathroom--but looked forward to Alabama's rest stop rocket. It had been saying hello to us all the years we've been making the drive.
It's still there, but the welcome center itself had been torn down. The site is a mass of red dirt and myriad excavating equipment. The rocket stands alone. Its welcome seems feeble.
Horrified and feeling betrayed once again by change, I looked it up, finding a notice from radio station WKSR that said, "The NASA rest stop rocket in Alabama that has greeted people arriving from Tennessee on Interstate 65 for more than four decades is rusting and needs to be replaced, and that welcome center has been shut down."
Well. Dang it.
It's always this way in life, isn't it? It must be why we have memories, and it must be why when those memories fail in pieces and parts--as they most certainly do. So that we can remember the rush of pride and recognition that came with seeing the rocket, how we sat in Kingfish that day, those crosses that mean different things to different people. Duane and his friend we visited yesterday remember the walk to the pool at Wyandotte, the fifty cents. Duane saved his lunch money, his friend mowed a yard. They remember who lived where on the streets in their old neighborhood, and what they don't remember a phone call to a sister will clear up for them.
It makes me think of other changes. Of Gilead School with its fire escape from the second floor that was so much fun to go down. Its creaky wood floors and its pictures of graduating classes that hung in the assembly room. Of the days when all country kids rode school buses, singing and shouting and sometimes getting into trouble with the driver. That was a lot of energy to pack onto one bus, wasn't it?
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We listened to music at Gallery 15 before we left on Thursday. The Three Old Guys played and I thought how cool it was that I've listened to two of them off-and-on since they and I were all in high school. The music was so great, with the musicians and the audience seeming to be in the same place. Terri and John Bond sang "Sounds of Silence" and gave me long moments of tenderness. A pretty young girl sketched portraits. She did mine, something I can add to my remember whens along with frog legs and welcome rockets and fire escapes.
I've waxed enough nostalgia this morning, haven't I, sitting here in this hotel dining room in a state whose time is an hour behind ours. I've been up since five--or four--depending on how you look at it. Seeing others leaving early with their luggage, going home to Michigan. A man with a beard sits across the room in the semi-darkness of the not-yet-open area, watching the news that is louder than I like.
People-watching, at least, doesn't change. They fill their cups before they leave for their own Somewhere Else and I wonder what their stories are. They look back, thoughtfully, wondering if they remembered everything. That doesn't change, either.
I wonder if they will miss the welcome rocket like I will. Or will they just be glad they remember it?
Have a great week. Remember. Be nice to somebody.
Wyandotte Park is still there, but the pool he remembers is not. Like Miller Pool in Peru, it's from another time and it's too bad it's gone. Too bad.
We talk about going to Kingfish to eat and him telling our youngest that his frog legs looked like little people legs. Jock couldn't eat them then, so Duane did. I don't think he did it on purpose, but 40 years later, we're still accusing him of it.
There are points of dread on this trip. Two of them used to be Kokomo's myriad stoplights and the nightmare of merging onto 465 that comes with spending one's life on country roads where my biggest complaint is that people don't stop at stop signs and occasionally drive 22 mph in the middle of the road. Then there's Nashville; it always rains when we drive through--although it was only a sprinkle this time--and it has so much traffic that there aren't enough roads to stuff the cars onto.
It's still there, but the welcome center itself had been torn down. The site is a mass of red dirt and myriad excavating equipment. The rocket stands alone. Its welcome seems feeble.
Horrified and feeling betrayed once again by change, I looked it up, finding a notice from radio station WKSR that said, "The NASA rest stop rocket in Alabama that has greeted people arriving from Tennessee on Interstate 65 for more than four decades is rusting and needs to be replaced, and that welcome center has been shut down."
Well. Dang it.
It's always this way in life, isn't it? It must be why we have memories, and it must be why when those memories fail in pieces and parts--as they most certainly do. So that we can remember the rush of pride and recognition that came with seeing the rocket, how we sat in Kingfish that day, those crosses that mean different things to different people. Duane and his friend we visited yesterday remember the walk to the pool at Wyandotte, the fifty cents. Duane saved his lunch money, his friend mowed a yard. They remember who lived where on the streets in their old neighborhood, and what they don't remember a phone call to a sister will clear up for them.
It makes me think of other changes. Of Gilead School with its fire escape from the second floor that was so much fun to go down. Its creaky wood floors and its pictures of graduating classes that hung in the assembly room. Of the days when all country kids rode school buses, singing and shouting and sometimes getting into trouble with the driver. That was a lot of energy to pack onto one bus, wasn't it?
.png)
We listened to music at Gallery 15 before we left on Thursday. The Three Old Guys played and I thought how cool it was that I've listened to two of them off-and-on since they and I were all in high school. The music was so great, with the musicians and the audience seeming to be in the same place. Terri and John Bond sang "Sounds of Silence" and gave me long moments of tenderness. A pretty young girl sketched portraits. She did mine, something I can add to my remember whens along with frog legs and welcome rockets and fire escapes.
I've waxed enough nostalgia this morning, haven't I, sitting here in this hotel dining room in a state whose time is an hour behind ours. I've been up since five--or four--depending on how you look at it. Seeing others leaving early with their luggage, going home to Michigan. A man with a beard sits across the room in the semi-darkness of the not-yet-open area, watching the news that is louder than I like.
People-watching, at least, doesn't change. They fill their cups before they leave for their own Somewhere Else and I wonder what their stories are. They look back, thoughtfully, wondering if they remembered everything. That doesn't change, either.
I wonder if they will miss the welcome rocket like I will. Or will they just be glad they remember it?
Have a great week. Remember. Be nice to somebody.
Nice post--it feels like one I might write on the road to Michigan. 31 to South Haven and then up the Blue Star Highway to Muskegon... nearly every summer weekend from the time I was maybe ten years old... I still think of driving in Mom's car pulling that beat-up camper and anticipating getting set up and heading down to glorious Lake Michigan...
ReplyDeleteThanks, Nan. As you know, I love road trips!
DeleteI'm from Louisville, too! Does your hubby remember Fountain Ferry? I went to Durrett HS, not far from the airport, and near Camp Taylor. I remember hearing of Wyandotte, but I don't think I ever went there.
ReplyDeleteHe does remember Fountain Ferry, and even I remember the ghostly look of that wooden roller coaster after it closed. He grew up in the Iroquois Park area, starting school at St. Simon and Jude. They moved before he went to HS, but he would have gone to Male or Manual. Thanks for coming by.
DeleteMy dad went to Male, when it was still downtown. It moved several years ago, and is now located where Durrett used to be.
DeleteThanks for the memories! Lovely post, Liz, as usual.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Janie!
DeleteI took the girls to Wyandotte pool. I was really sad when they closed it.
ReplyDeleteI live in Alabama and the rocket has always been a wonderful sign that we were almost home for the past thirty four years. I hate it won't be there to greet us!
ReplyDeleteI do, too. I hope they repair instead of just trashing it altogether!
DeleteSorry to know the Alabama "Rocket" is coming down. It was always a treasure to know how far along we were on our trips to Florida. We almost always stopped there for a break. I have pictures of it taken from the road and different angles in the rest area.
ReplyDeleteI was glad we got to see it, but everything else being gone was so startling and disappointing!
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