During the 1950s, there was so much I wanted to do that I hated to waste daylight. So I did my traveling at night, in vehicles with little future, and no means of communication, no AAA to call if I could, a few dollars and no credit card for backup, and road maps for guidance.
With a tank of gas, a quart of cold milk, and a large package of cookies shaped like maple leaves and stuffed with maple-flavored icing, I could go all night. The AM radio picked up stations as we passed, then faded to static till I found another. WWVA in Wheeling, W.Va., however, broadcast with 50,000 watts, and kept the country music coming all night.
Those were hardly the good old days. โDesperateโ would be a better word to describe them. My mantra, every time I took off on an all-night run, was a line from the song, Black Denim Trousers: โHe said, โIโll go a thousand miles before the sun can rise.โ โ The sun always won.
I thought of those days as I planned this last weekendโs itinerary: a Saturday visit with a high school chum of my late wife near Albany; a get-together of the blended clans of my cousins a few miles from there; a run north to a visit old teaching colleagues on the New York shore of Lake Champlain; and on Sunday afternoon, a ride across the lake on the ferry and an easy hour home.
A lot like the desperate old days. Except that the car this time โ Hagar โ was practically new, hybrid and rock-solid. In anticipation of hosting a lady, Iโd had him detailed; my son had suggested he smelled sort of like a wet dog. Then, there was no way I was going to Albany through Lake George again on a holiday. Iโd go down Route 7 and cross the river at Troy, something I hadnโt done in over 60 years. But Iโve managed to come to an understanding with my iPhoneโs GPS, and she promised to get me to the exact address. Still, I slipped a New York state map under a towel in the back seat, just in case.
It was daytime driving this time, too. Although automotive headlights have marvelously improved, I have not. Instead, Hagar, Kiki and I trundled down the driveway just past 6:30 Saturday morning, with the GPS predicting our arrival at my friendโs house at 9:54, six minutes before my proposed time.
My kids in Arkansas have kindly loaded my Spotify with some of my favorite music, so I fired that up, too โ โCountry Hits of the Fiftiesโ โ and went bopping down the interstate and up the White River Valley toward Killington, past dozens of reminders of Tropical Storm Ireneโs unbelievable devastation of Vermontโs steep, narrow valleys just 10 years ago.
Folks who commute on Route 7 south from Rutland once sported bumper stickers: โPray for me. I drive VT 7.โ But the roadโs been straightened and widened, with passing lanes, and is now a real pleasure. Itโs hard not to notice the dark, beetling mountains on both sides โ late sunrise, early sunset in the Otter Creek Valley โ but they made it easier to notice something else.
It was the country music: an almost solid run of calamity, disaster, and heartbreak. โThe news is out, all over town, that youโve been seen a-runninโ โroundโ; โThere was whiskey and blood run together, mixed with glass where they layโ; โIn the twilight glow I see them, blue eyes crying in the rain. When we kissed goodbye and parted, I knew weโd never meet again.โ Holy Toledo!
Yet they topped the charts in their day; I remember all the lyrics still. But now, as I didnโt before, I wonder why they were so popular.
Was it pining for lost homelands or the poverty of Appalachia that led to the embrace of disappointment and personal tragedy? Was it exploitation by owners (โI owe my soul to the company storeโ) or the rape of their mountains?
Was it the same sense of victimhood thatโs been cropping out lately among evangelicals and vanishing white folks?
I turned โem off as the route got complicated and the GPS guidance more important. I had lovely visits, and the potluck was large and welcoming. Later, emulating the wise men to whom God spoke in a dream, I decided not to drive north on a wet, dark Saturday night, but on an empty Sunday-morning interstate instead.
Hours later, halfway across the lake, the ferry shuddered as it hit a big wave. Kiki looked up, alarmed. That was the Vermont border, I assured her. Weโre home.
Willem Lange can be reached at willem.lange@comcast.net.
