Despite the driving on-again-off-again rain, we made pretty good time heading toward Chicago. Good time being the best we could do in a moving van pulling an SUV on a car carrier. As I said before, the van seemed maxed out at 60 mph, which at first was like a cruel joke with nearly 2000 miles to drive. (I did notice somewhere in Missouri, or was it Oklahoma? - a sticker admonishing the driver not to exceed 45 mph, but we're not to that part yet).
If you shudder at certain driving nightmares, please take a leisurely jaunt through Chicago at rush hour. They-will-run-you-down! Cars were whizzing by us at insane speeds, even semis were dusting us. It's not driving on the Chicago freeways, it's qualifying.
Even with the heavy traffic we were okay, for a while, because they were going about 110 mph. I kept nervously checking the time, sure that we could avoid the worst, but the weight of the van, the drag created by the car carrier and the driving rain created the perfect timing debacle. We were at a dead stop in no time, in the heart of the Chicago rush hour, in the driving spring rain. We should have been at Gramma's place by now! Stupid truck! Stupid traffic! Stupid rain!
Okay, sorry about that. Flashbacks and all that.
So we rolled into Gramma's place two hours later than we should have - an indicator of how our trip timing would go for the rest of the journey. Now, we did happen to choose the worst rain and storms that the country had seen for some time. The weather news showed the entire country covered by rain and violent thunder storms. What a great time to peruse the American countryside!
When we rolled into the Illinois farm town, we were stressed out, (not as stressed as the cat, though), tired and in need of a good cold beer. After Jim drove all over the neighbor's lawn with the moving van, insuring good, deep ruts that would last the entire summer season, we were finally in a warm and dry cozy place to curl up and relax. Well, Jim was, anyway. I had to sneak in the cat that Gramma doesn't know we have, and figure out what to do with her for about 24 hours.
I have to ask you, (rhetorically, of course): was it cruel to take a paranoid cat on a cross-country journey in a cramped van cab? Was it weird to have a litter box in such close proximity to us for four days? Was it wrong to sneak the cat into Gramma's house, taking advantage of her failing cognizance? Well, 1) We love the cat and she's coming with us; 2) Everybody poops, what're you going to do? 3) We're probably evil and just haven't realized it yet. Sorry, Gramma!
It took ten minutes for Sophie to come out of her crate. Funny, it took such an effort to get her into it in the first place and now that we were in unfamiliar territory she refused to come out! Sophie inched her way out and found her way to the litter box where she did some impressive work. As Sophie had finally worked up the nerve to explore Gramma's unbelievably clean and well organized garage, a thought struck me. Gramma getting up early in the morning and opening her garage door; Sophie escaping and me in a fit of despair while staggering, crying and calling out her name through the little town, sick with worry. Okay, new plan. Jim suggested the laundry room in the basement. Perfect. Sophie even approved. It was great, except that I was so worried about the cat having a nervous breakdown due to stress that I was up half of the night worrying, and the other half going down stairs to check on her. Night number two with no sleep. Yikes!
I told you, dorky pioneers!
The next morning we were whisked away to the local diner, Ziggy's. A spartan establishment in which the entire restaurant is the smoking section, and the room in the back behind the wall of glass was for the non-smokers: a fishbowl for the healthy. It was empty and the light was off. I panicked because Jim's lungs cannot tolerate cigarette smoke, but the far corner was not too bad since the long table of farmers were mostly eating their breakfasts, and hardly smoking at all.
Now, the floors in Ziggy's are buckled and uneven, the counters are ancient and marked up spectacularly. The tables and chairs look like what what one might find in a VFW hall in 1960. This was the place where the farmers came after they worked in their fields for a couple of hours, then got a hankerin' for some grub. I had been there twice before during visits to Gramma's place. They literally still have manure on their boots when they come in for breakfast!
Listening to the conversation at the big table, I realized how much I don't have in common with middle America, which made me sad because I so respect and defend the small town life and the American farmer. Each time I had walked into this place, however, with my husband and his siblings, all activity stopped and they stared us down, like in a movie just before the newcomers get killed, (as in 2000 maniacs). Strangers are suspect, always! And me with a peace symbol on my purse! Ah, well, watcha gonna do? We ate and left, probably never to return again. That afternoon we would really get our trip started. Up until now it felt like vacation. We were about to go beyond our narrow little world, to a new home and into economic uncertainty. Wagons, Ho!
Stay tuned next time for our exciting drive through Missouri and Oklahoma, and find out new uses for dead, roadside armadillos!
No comments:
Post a Comment