Blessed Be the Tie That Binds

by Mark Lowe

 

When she died in March, I flew from Los Angeles to Chicago the next day. I then drove from Chicago to her home in Decatur and began attending to the tasks we all perform when we lose a parent. By the time I returned to California six days later, I knew I'd need to go back to Illinois and finalize remaining matters at a later date.

I decided that when the time came, I would drive to Illinois . My reasons were twofold. First, the trip would be an opportunity for a cross-country road trip. Second, when I returned to California , I could take some of my mother's things I didn't trust to a common carrier. If anyone was going to break something, it was going to be me.

I yearn for long distance road trips, especially when I can travel alone. It's not that I'm anti-social or don't enjoy the company of friends. I do. But for me such a trip is a luxury. I'm free to ponder all the beauty and splendor, and the oddities and ugliness our country has to offer. A cross-country drive allows me the perspective of a participant observer, a role in which I am completely at ease.

Yet I'm not the solitary traveler I fancy myself being at all. Instead, the staccato interactions with mini-mart clerks, motel night managers, waitresses, and fellow motorists offer a connection to this country that is as vital to me as the embrace of a close friend. A cross-country road trip provides affirmation that I'm an American.

~ ~ ~

On a Friday morning early in May, I left home at dawn to avoid morning traffic. An hour later, I was in the mountains north of San Bernardino . After another hour, I passed Barstow and headed across the Mojave Desert on Interstate 40.

The sky was so clear that day. I was eighty miles west of the San Francisco Peaks north of Flagstaff , AZ , when I first noticed the higher elevations still showing winter snow. East of Flagstaff, I granted myself the extra time for a side trip through the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert .

I arrived in Gallup , NM , at 6 pm and stopped to refuel. While pumping gas into my rented Ford Explorer, a guy wearing a baseball cap driving a customized Chevy Monte Carlo pulled up to the next island. He was handsome, Hispanic and around thirty years old. His prolonged stares in my direction were unnerving. My gaydar was beeping, but the signals are more confusing the older I get. Was I that peculiar looking? Maybe it was the California plates. Still, this was westernmost New Mexico – not New England where California plates would be far less common. Regardless, I let my fantasies wander.

I walked into the adjacent mini-mart and a thirty-something guy in full tourist garb walked in soon after. Speaking in a thick British accent, he asked the teenage clerk where a phone box was. The clerk looked at me quizzically to see if I understood. I didn't. But after a few moments of discussion, we concluded he was looking for a pay phone. Blimey, who knew?

Arriving in Albuquerque after dusk, I made a quick loop through the downtown area looking for a place to stay and stumbled across the city's historic Old Town . It deserved a closer look, but my objective at that hour was to find a place to spend the night.

The next morning, a guy who stayed in the motel room next to mine was getting ready to leave at the same time as me. A slender but rugged man, about forty, he was wearing Wranglers and a black leather jacket. His Harley Davidson was parked next to the Explorer. The biker eyeballed me each time he passed back and forth in front of my parking space. Understandably curious, I looked back. Once again, I faced the same quandary I had in Gallup . Was my gaydar functioning properly? Or was he thinking I was just another fruitcake from California ? Would the previous night have held more excitement had we checked in at the same time? It was a nice little flight of imagination.

I left I40 at Tucumcari , NM , and headed northeast on US 54 toward Wichita .

In southwestern Kansas I saw several farmers, older men in their sixties or seventies, driving along in their beat-up workhorse pickup trucks. They reminded me of my Uncle Beatty who was a farmer. There was a common look about those wizened tenders of the soil, the squint in their eyes, the droop of their left arm over the driver's side door with the window rolled down, and a slightly slouched position assumed while sitting behind the steering wheel. I recognized that posture being the result of a life lived close to the land. Those men spend their lives abiding by a timetable established by the seasons and the passing of years, not by a digital clock. Ingrained in them is a wariness for anyone or anything that appears out of the ordinary, whether it be the weather or a new waitress in town.

Making a side trip through Dodge City , the downtown area seemed spruced up to look old-time Western, and the nearby Boot Hill attraction showcased an interesting assortment of the town's earliest buildings. But I was on a tight schedule, so any further probing into what Dodge City had to offer was out of the question. I headed east out of town as if I were on the run having just stolen a kiss from the preacher's daughter. Er, uh, son?

My goal was to reach the outskirts of Kansas City by nightfall. I drove through Wichita and made my way onto the Kansas Turnpike from there. Shortly after exiting the turnpike at Emporia , I was assaulted by a huge billboard which stated, “Accept Jesus Christ as Your Savior or Regret it for the Rest of Your Life.” I'm still trying to figure out what that means, but given that kind of ultimatum it's a safe bet somebody isn't kidding.

By dusk the dew-dampened smells of the Midwestern countryside were instantly recognizable. Whenever I return to the Midwest and notice that smell, whole vignettes from my youth come to mind, memories of childhood play on my uncle's farm or backyard picnics at our house which often lingered into the warmth of a late spring evening.

I spent the night in the Kansas City suburb of Lenexa . A cousin of mine lived in Kansas City for many years before her career took her elsewhere, and I used to work for a company based there. I was tired, but it was a Saturday night, and I wanted to revisit some of the sights. After settling into a motor inn adjacent to Interstate 35, I headed into town and drove by some of the places I knew.

The next day I chose a route to Decatur that took me across northern Missouri on US 36. I'd never traveled that way before, and it was a pleasant, scenic surprise. Stopping at a mini-mart outside of a small town mid-way across the state, I found a young gay man working there. This time I was confident my gaydar was functioning properly! What occurred to me then was how gay men and lesbians are indeed everywhere, from the canyons of Wall Street to the mini-marts of rural Missouri and beyond.

My next stop was Hannibal , MO , the home of Mark Twain. I remembered the place from a childhood visit, and the area around Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher's houses remained much the same. I didn't remember much else about the place, so I drove around and discovered a gentrified retail area nearby. Yet separated from these newer developments, the old riverfront town looked like any other aging Midwestern dame, several decades past her prime.

Crossing the Mississippi River on the new Interstate 72 bridge, I recalled the old structure; one of those rickety steel cantilever bridges built in the early part of the twentieth century. Bridges like these once spanned the Mississippi and Illinois Rivers at regular intervals. Many of those spans were paved with a steel grid and because they were narrow, without prohibitive concrete abutments on the side of the roadway, if a child stuck their head out of the car window, the kid could look directly down on the river. The height and the noises those bridges made while crossing them provided a thrill ride unlike any other. Sadly, the new I72 bridge obscured any close view of the Mississippi , and it wasn't much different than crossing an ordinary interstate overpass.

Having crossed the river, I soon realized I had forgotten how lovely parts of western Illinois can be. The counties located between the Illinois and the Mississippi river offer a glimpse into an Illinois landscape most people never conjure much less associate with the Prairie State . As I traveled, I passed by rare, imposing limestone palisades and forested hillsides, features that are not often found in other parts of the state.

~~~

The morning after I arrived in Decatur , I made the requisite visit to the attorney's office and the bank. I then turned my attention to the disposition of my mother's clothes and remaining personal belongings. I tried to transform her bedroom from its sickroom configuration back to the way it looked before her stroke. Attempting to make it into a guest room, I only partially accomplished my goal. Because my oldest brother continues to live in the house, I knew I couldn't push for too many changes too quickly. On the other hand, without my nudging, little would have been done.

All of us go through the process of losing parents. It's only a matter of time. But when you lose your last parent, when both parents are finally gone, choices must be made which become overwhelming. For me, the big decisions were predictable. The little ones were exhausting. I wasn't prepared for so many surprises, both good and bad. Amid my grief, I ran across so many mementos and photos, reminders which meant more than I ever thought they would. I found myself smiling, laughing, and shedding tears. As much as I hated the task at hand, I knew it was cathartic. Strangely enough, the items most difficult to deal with were the ones that most reminded me of my mother's final illness, yet they were also the easiest things to throw away.

As I was getting ready to leave Wednesday morning, my brother reminded me I had not yet visited Frieda, my mother's best friend. My mother and Frieda became inseparable after each lost their husbands more than thirty years ago. While most of their circle of friends remained happily married couples, my mother and Frieda became a sort of couple by default. The two women were compatible traveling and dinner companions and as a result no one in their peer group ever worried about either widow being the odd person out.

I hadn't seen Frieda in more than a year, not since she had moved permanently into a nursing home. When I first saw Frieda that morning, I almost didn't recognize her. She sat in a wheelchair in the dining hall. It was after breakfast and she waited to be taken back to her room. Gone was the once dynamic and vigorous woman, and gone was the Lucille Ball red hair that I remembered as among her most striking features.

Coping with my mother's loss was painful enough, but seeing Frieda, so frail, was shudderingly difficult. However, the moment she saw me, a spark ignited and her familiar radiance returned. After we embraced, I wheeled her back to her room. It was impossible for us to talk about my mother for very long. Tears came too easily for both of us. Although Frieda didn't know it, I grieved for her too. Having worked as a nurse her entire adult life, she was devoted to the care of others. Now she relied heavily on care provided by others. In spite of her circumstances, Frieda's warmth and optimism lifted our burdensome mood that morning. The love I felt for her was so enormous it might well have burst the walls of her room had I remained much longer.

~~~

Immediately after my visit with Frieda that Wednesday morning, I began my return trip to Los Angeles . I had taken care of nearly all of the financial transactions set forth in my mother's trust, and I had done all I could to help my brother adjust to life without my mother being around him every day.

Leaving Decatur , I headed south on US 51. The first thirty miles out of town were full of childhood memories. US 51 led to Tower Hill, a small community where my father's Aunt Esther and Uncle Lee lived. They raised my dad from the age of six when his own mother died and his father moved to Chicago , leaving five young children in the care of relatives.

Beyond the town of Assumption , I passed the turnoff to the tiny hamlet of Henton, where my father's birth mother and father are buried. I was there only once when my grandfather was laid to rest, but he was a grandfather in name only. When I was growing up, my father rarely took us to see him. My father's bond was with his Aunt Esther and Uncle Lee, as was mine. They were “my grandparents.”

At Sandoval I made a left turn onto US 50, crossed the short distance to Interstate 57, and resumed heading south.

Beyond Marion , I entered another part of Illinois which bears little resemblance to the rest of the Prairie State . Here the land is hilly, forested, and stunningly beautiful. That day everything was so green it was almost unnatural. I57 courses gently through this sparsely populated region. Southern Illinois is the antithesis of metropolitan Chicago , but it doesn't resemble the agricultural midsection of the state either. The majesty of southern Illinois lies in its endless forests and striking outcroppings of colorful sandstone and limestone. Savoring my time, I drove through the area, all the while knowing it might be my last visit to the area and fully aware that it had been nearly forty years since I'd passed that way before.

I exited I57 and drove through what's left of Cairo , IL . I hadn't been in Cairo since the spring of 1966. Even then the town was in decline. Forever gone are the days of its importance at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers . Now Cairo is not so much a sleepy town as it is a town asleep, its prominence never fully realized.

As much as Cairo 's location was an advantage early in its existence, it ironically proved to be its downfall. In the heyday of 19 th riverboat transportation and commerce, Cairo sat at a very important junction. Even after railroads began to eclipse riverboat trade, ferry service from Cairo to and from Missouri and Kentucky left the town in an enviable spot. However, the rivers that gave Cairo its life also made it a place difficult to inhabit. Inundated regularly by floods, the town constructed a fortress-like system of levees in the early part of the twentieth century. The levees solved the flooding problem in town but isolated it from its surroundings. The boundaries of the levees both physically and psychologically curtailed Cairo 's growth and did nothing to solve the ever-present ground water seepage problems the town contends with.

During the day, I had trouble enjoying my drive thanks to the bane and distraction of cellular telephones. Dealing with my business in Los Angeles , I also had to make sure my mother's estate matters were being followed up on in Decatur . I felt myself being pulled apart by my responsibilities in California and Illinois when most wanted to escape them.

Despite the geographical distance I covered, I felt mired in a guilt trip. I kept reminding myself of the old saying: take any trip, to another city, another state, or another country, but don't take guilt trips. Guilt is such a non-productive emotion. But, I had trouble escaping it regardless of the amount of rationalization I piled on. I knew as time passed, my brother wouldn't remember my having left sooner than he would've liked. The problems my business partner encountered during my absence wouldn't seem like the crises they'd originally appeared as. Yet, I still felt guilt.

The drive on Interstate 40 between West Memphis and Little Rock was a hair-raising experience, and I say that as a veteran driver of L A freeways! I witnessed aggressive and dangerous driving unparalleled on that trip. The stretch of I40 I'd traveled five days before between Gallup and Albuquerque ranked a close second. All of this reckless driving seemed senseless.

On the outskirts of Little Rock , I was reminded instantly that I was in the heart of the Bible belt. The largest Pentecostal church I'd ever seen towered alongside I40. Heading toward Texarkana on Interstate 30, I saw more evidence of my being in the middle of bible-thumping, fundie-land. Christian fundamentalist billboards appeared beside the highway with alarming frequency.

Interstate 30, southwest of Little Rock , turned the trip spectacular. A gently rolling highway wound through miles of woodlands, and the route wasn't crowded with crazy traffic like I40 had been. The pace of both cars and trucks felt choreographed in an easy step to follow. Approaching the Texas state line, the splendor of sunset faded and dusk beckoned me into Texarkana for the night.

I left Texarkana the next morning destined for El Paso . Shortly after leaving Texarkana , I saw wildflowers beside the interstate, specifically Queen Anne's lace. I also noticed the absence of abundant billboards alongside the highway. When I was a teenager, Lady Bird Johnson did public service TV spots imploring Americans to beautify our country by planting a tree, shrub, or bush - something she advocated in her distinct, lilting Texas accent. Had her vision taken hold in Texas ? Had the state enacted legislation to control the vistas from certain highways? I could only speculate that it had.

Between Texarkana and El Paso,  I made two brief side trips, one into Dallas and one into Ft. Worth . I wanted to see Dealey Plaza in Dallas, where John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and visit the old Ft Worth stockyards. I drove by both places, but was unable to give either the attention each deserved.

Texas , west of Dallas/Ft Worth, was surprisingly beautiful. Rolling hills and clusters of wooded areas bordered the route Interstate 20 followed. Further west, the landscape segued to broad mesas covered with scrub vegetation.

The Texas Highway Patrol appeared busy stopping speeders and in an area where the troopers were being noticeably vigilant, I cautiously eased the Explorer past a white Ford pickup. Passing the driver, I observed the guy driving the pickup had a pair of cowboy boots wedged soles up between the pickup's back window and the front edge of its bed. The pickup kept pace behind me all the way to Abilene . Nothing unusual about that, long distance travelers often settle into the same speed. By the time I exited the interstate to gas up at Abilene , I'd long since quit paying much attention to the pickup.

While refueling at the pump opposite mine, a quirky but stylish woman driving a red Volvo wagon commented to me, in her warm Texas intonation, how awful she thought gas prices were. I told her prices were a bargain compared to where I lived. She asked where that was, and after I told her she became sheepish. Admitting it was a silly question, she wanted to know if I was involved with the movie industry in any way. If only I could've said yes to make her day. Instead, I told her my real occupation, adding it was much less glamorous. I had no idea what she did for a living, and it didn't matter much to me. I thought she was a star in her own right, a genuine bijou.

As I got closer to Midland and Odessa , the land became as flat as a tortilla. What vegetation struggling to exist didn't appear suitable for any particular use, but I knew Midland and Odessa sat at the heart of west Texas oil country. The skyline of Midland rose incongruously out of the featureless plain, and the oil industry had done a thorough job of erecting grasshopper oil pumps as far as the eye could see.

Beyond Odessa I once again noticed a white Ford pickup traveling behind me. It looked like the same one that had been traveling in tandem behind me east of Abilene . Admittedly, white Ford pickups are as common anywhere in the U.S. as black BMWs are in Beverly Hills , but could it be the same white Ford pickup?

Needing a break, I took the Monahans exit and pulled into a McDonald's. As I locked the Explorer, the white Ford pickup pulled in. It was the same one with the cowboy boots wedged behind its back window. Out stepped an eye-popping cowboy in his late twenties, with reddish hair and a muscular, compact build. I was dumbfounded even though I was sure the encounter was a coincidence. Reaching the side door of the restaurant just before he did, I went through and held the door open behind me before heading toward the men's room. He followed behind me. His actions seemed a logical thing to do given the rest stop location of the McDonald's. Nonetheless, it rattled me.

I am prone toward bouts of shyness in such circumstances, but standing before the porcelain fixture next to mine, this guy was having more trouble getting his business started than I was. I'm not sure who felt more embarrassed, and it wasn't a situation which invited conversation. I finished with some degree of relief just as the cowboy was able to begin. He emerged from the rest room shortly thereafter and took his place in line behind me at the counter.

Even if the gay vibe I felt existed solely in my head, would it have hurt me to turn around and mention I'd noticed his upside-down boots a few hundred miles back? It would've been an innocent way to start a conversation. But no, not me. The shy side of my personality slammed into the potential for dialogue like a guillotine. A grown man, I felt like a schoolboy. I climbed back into the Explorer berating myself for feeling so juvenile.

I passed beyond Pecos and noticed dark clouds and lightning in the distance. At Toyah, I drove into the first downpour I encountered that day. The outside temperature plummeted, and the deluge brought the smell of wet sage to life, a smell that is as intoxicating for me as night-blooming jasmine. There were small flowering plants hugging the ground everywhere and great yuccas too, their yellow-white blooms sitting high atop the giant spikes the plant sends up from its prickly base.

My drive through the undulating west Texas mountains turned blissful. The outside temperature climbed back into the 90s again until I encountered another lightning show and thundershower near Van Horn. Acutely aware the day's drive impressed upon me memories which would last a lifetime. My waltz across Texas presented a panoramic view of the state. Witnessed from corner to corner, at its greatest width, I was much more impressed than I had expected to be.

I drove into El Paso before dark. After scouting around for a place to stay, I opted for the Camino Real Hotel downtown. I'd stayed there once before and liked the place. The desk clerk gave me a corner room on the 15 th floor, so I was pleased with my decision to splurge.

I like El Paso , although it's understandable why some might not. El Paso is unquestionably a gritty border town, but its location between two mountain ranges is unique, and it may be the most Mexican city of any significance in the United States . Visiting El Paso is almost like taking a trip south of the border. Downtown El Paso's high-rise buildings are evidence of American prosperity, but adjacent to the area is a decidedly low-end barrio and retail district which caters solely to the day trippers who come across the Rio Grande from Ciudad Juarez.

From my hotel room that night, I saw the huge Texas Lone Star lit on the Franklin Mountains which bisect El Paso and jut into its downtown. I also saw the glittering lights of Ciudad Juarez extending endlessly to the south. But when day broke, the sight of Juarez 's grinding realities replaced its nighttime glitter.

I left El Paso destined for Los Angeles . I'd also decided to take a side trip to Bisbee, AZ. Exiting Interstate 10 onto New Mexico route 80, I immediately knew that a pleasant, scenic drive was in store for me, the kind of solitary road I love.

Breezing past the outskirts of Douglas , I headed toward Bisbee. Looking for anything familiar, I recalled my parents once had friends who owned a ranch near Cochise, but I hadn't been in the area since I was a kid. I recognized the great open pit copper mine at Bisbee. Even as a child, the Lavender Pit Mine left an indelible impression in my mind. As I headed into the old downtown area of Bisbee, little switches inside my head began tripping. The place indeed looked familiar, with its narrow winding streets and turn-of-the-century architecture.

Reunited with I10, I drove toward Phoenix . Unfortunately, I arrived around 3 pm on a Friday afternoon, and traffic was snarled in several spots. I should have found a way around Phoenix , but I'd never been there and wanted to get a glimpse of the place.

Beyond Phoenix 's sprawl, I continued west across the Arizona desert. The California entry inspection station at Blythe was closed, so traffic moved uninterrupted. As I10 began its downward slope into the Coachella Valley east of Palm Springs , I ran headlong into the evening winds which often howl across the valley from San Gorgonio Pass. The winds kicked up considerable dust-something my tired eyes didn't appreciate. But I knew the winds would subside when I10 climbed out of the valley and the outside temperature equalized with the Los Angeles basin.

Not long after dark I rolled into San Bernardino and continued my drive to Los Angeles unimpeded. The traffic gods were with me.

~~~

Settling in at home, images from my eight-day journey ran through my mind like a National Geographic TV special. The places and faces I'd seen along my way were presented in an ever-changing montage, images tied together but once in time, only in my mind. A composition like no other, yet surely it was similar to ones that exist in the minds of others who've traveled the roads I had.

Each cross-country trip I make reinforces my belief that as a nation, we the people are more alike than different. Based on my conversations with mini-mart clerks, motel night managers, waitresses, and fellow motorists, I believe we share all of the same basic concerns, hopes and aspirations. But judging from what I read in local newspapers, viewed on local television news broadcasts, and what I observed on roadside billboards, our beliefs about life and liberty are subject to regional interpretation and often change noticeably from state to state. Even so, my encounters on that trip left me with the sense that most people are open to the debate of issues. That leads me to believe we endorse at least one important concept. Simply put, although we may not always agree with one another, we recognize the right of others to disagree. In my opinion, those whose thinking won't allow this reciprocity threaten our national integrity, undermining our basic freedoms.

The clothes we wear and the vehicles we drive often say more about where we live and work than they do about what we think. Yet as fellow travelers, moving across the great expanses of our country, we become as one perhaps more than we do in any other circumstance. Though our purposes for travel vary widely, there isn't a clear-mined soul en route anywhere who isn't interested in arriving safely, enjoying the variety of experiences any journey introduces into our lives. In doing so, we come to know other places and one another better, strengthening the blessed tie that binds us all.