Road Trips
The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page. ~ St. Augustine ~
I began life on the road. My parents had left Cuba, for the last time, in April of 1961, shortly after Fidel Castro had declared that his revolution had become a communist endeavor. Like so many before them, my parents chose Florida, as the place to begin their life of exile.
In truth, I suppose it was only his exile, as my Mother, having been born in Franklin Furnace, Ohio, of Irish, English, and Scotch heritage, had previously chosen Cuba, for what she had hoped would be a life in exile.
In September, of 1961, when my grandfather, Delbert Cooper, died, in Columbus, Ohio, my parents were living in Tampa, Florida; barely surviving, like the rest of the exiled community. My father was waiting on tables, and could not manage a few days off of work, so my Mother, nine months pregnant, and with my two year old sister, in tow, headed north, to the funeral, where a few days later, I was born, at Ohio State University.
For most people, a road trip implies an automobile and an open road. I do not disagree with the definition, but have expanded it to include the process of travel, by which the journey has as much importance, as the destination – even when the destination is something as important as a funeral, birthday, or wedding.
Kate and I completed our umpteenth road trip, last month. Our first trip was shortly after we met, when we traveled from Columbus, Ohio, no less, to Long Beach, California. It was 1987, my father, had passed away a few months before, and what was left of my family, had scattered, looking for solace. I was on my way home from Europe and the Middle East, and stopped in Columbus, to see my mother, who had returned to the state of her birth.
My younger sister introduced me to Kate, who always imagined that she belonged in California. A few weeks later, when I was ready to go back to Los Angeles, Kate decided to join me. We drove a car that someone wanted to get to the west coast, into which we loaded what we could of Kate’s previous life.
I had made this trip, with my family, when I was about ten years old. My parents were both great road trip people. They both enjoyed being on the road, and exploring the unknown. My father had actually driven the famed Pan American Highway, to Central America, a few years before he died; and my Mother’s last trip, out of the country, was to Africa, well into her 70’s. She did not go to a lovely resort, to photograph wild animals, instead she had gone on a missions trip, which involved countless hours riding from village church to village church, in a small car, on less than ideal roads – I recall her saying that she was in the height of her glory!
My parents liked eating in truck stops and funky diners, as well as road side stands, and quaint little restaurants that seemed to have ambiance. They also stopped along the way, my father was partial to historical land marks and local phenomena’s, while my Mother preferred churches and scattered friends. Road trips must involve stops.
Kate and I crossed the country in less than three days, not really stopping until we arrived in Flagstaff, Arizona, where we spent the night. Twenty years later, we are still driving like wild women.
This was a short trip, we were gone for less than a week; and unlike most of our trips, we felt rushed, which in many ways negate one of the defining principals of the road trip. The road should make you feel as if time has stood still, at least for you.
I prefer getting in my car, and not knowing where I am going – waiting to see where the road will take me. It is the same tenet that I apply when arriving at a new city. I like leaving my hotel, and walking out into the streets without a set objective. That is how I traveled when I was younger. Looking back it seemed more carefree, but was it?
In the beginning of our trips, there was of course, never any money – or very little money. We had a little red truck, which housed us, as much as Motel 6, our once standard road stop. We did not have AAA, so therefore we not only lacked the glorious trip-ticket, but the road books, which have so graciously served as our guide to presidential land marks, National Parks, and odd museums. We did have an atlas, one of my first purchases, utilizing my employee discount, from Walden Books. The atlas quite literally fell to pieces, it was well used.
This last trip had not one but two destinations. We were headed toward Maine, for Beth’s wedding, which was truly lovely; and we wanted to stop in Poughkeepsie, New York. There are many reasons to stop in Poughkeepsie – West Point, the Culinary Institute of America, Vassar College, Hyde Park, the F. D. Roosevelt presidential library, and Andy and Susan, our most gracious host; but we did not drive to Poughkeepsie for any of those reasons.
I have been given a gift. We purchased our home from a man named Mel Feldman. Mel says he had better offers, it is true that our bid was low; but he sold the house to us, because he thought we would be the best neighbors, for Phil, to our north, and Tom and Ruth, to our south. One has to wonder, how many people, when conducting business, stop to think about such things – and then act accordingly. Mel gifted me with his neighbors, and enriched my life beyond measure.
The day Kate brought me to see the house, which would become our home, was the first time I met Phil. He walked over, across the grass, and warmly introduced himself. He began speaking about Mel and the house, and how happy we were going to be here, even though I repeatedly told him that we were only looking, at the house. He ignored my dismissive comments, and welcomed me home.
It was late in November, before we were finally able to move, into our home, not long afterwards, Tom and Ruth stopped by, to invite us to their holiday party, an invitation which we gladly accepted. We were pleased to find that Phil was also a regular, at what we later learned was an annual affair.
Last week, we had a farewell dinner for Phil, who has moved north, to Poughkeepsie, to be closer to his family. As I set the table, I remembered our first Thanksgiving together, with Tom, Ruth, Mel, Phil, and another friend, from California. It had been a perfect day, with Mel marveling at the changes to the house, Phil, a devote atheist, saying a prayer over our meal, and endless hours of stimulating conversation. It saddened me to think that we might not have another chance, to share each others company.
Phil and I should never have become friends. We should have been neighborly, waving to one another, as we drug the trash cans in, or pulled out of the garage. There are fifty years and many worlds between us – enough to separate most mere mortals, but for some unexplained reason, I would say godly, except I know Phil would take offense, Phil and I became more than friends.
He was born in Yednitz, Bessarabia which is now Moldova. He came to the United States as an infant. On his first day of school, he and his father walked, hand in hand, and his father asked Phil if he knew how to say his name in English? Phil responded: What is English? I believe, much to my delight, that was when Phil began to question, explore, and dissect language. Phil’s father, spoke to him in Yiddish.
Phil and I have had a lovely affair of words. Our friendship has not been based on movies and coffee, shared cubicles or homerooms, or golf and tennis – we met in a world where words collided and embraced. We disagree on politics and religion, perhaps the two things which cause most people to argue – one of his first definitive statements, about my person, was that I was too smart to believe in God; while I suggested that he had nothing to lose, by believing in God.
As Kate and I made plans, to travel to Beth’s wedding, I knew that we would have to make our way to Poughkeepsie. I needed to see Phil, in his new home. When we knocked on his door, we found him cooking – that was, as it should be, he loves to cook. We found that he had already begun to create original art, to enhance walls he found too white, and we found his beautiful mind, still swirling with millions of brilliant thoughts, just as expected.
Phil has told me that he thinks of me as his daughter or his mother. When I told him that I needed to see him, in his new home, he said that I was just like his mother; who traveled to Florida, during World War II, to see where the Army had taken her son – she too needed to know that all was well.
It has now been a couple of weeks, since Phil and I sat, at his table, next door, and discussed the lack of a word for happiness in Yiddish. He says glick, when means luck, does not count for happiness. We spoke for hours, about some of the things which interest us – words, life, death, history, eternity, each other, and happiness. I was happy to sit with Phil.
There are some people, topics, ideas which seem too large to be confined to pen and paper, but these are the meager tools, at hand. Phil has given me Yiddish, in return, I offer Phil, to Yiddish, for happiness. That is all for now.
