I blasted out of Boulder right as, ironically, Boulder was getting blasted. The snow was national news, I'm told. I'm just happy I wasn't involved in any multicar pileups, thereby becoming state and local news of my own.
I rolled out along US 36 at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, one of the relatively few cars to brave the conditions so early in the morning. That was precisely my plan, and I was happy to find myself in that more secure isolation as I fishtailed Eastward, throwing a blinding spray of slop out from behind my rear tires. As the sun rose, confirming Eastern Colorado as the gray, desolate pall we'd all suspected, I smiled mightily. I had begun my long anticipated road trip, and it had started safely.
The first stop on the agenda was The Farm, an effort to spend time with my aging maternal grandparents. Their presence on those sacred 220 acres in central Missouri is embedded in my memory, and there it will invariably remain. The beauty of our family's rolling retreat is nuanced, as is the case with any location blessed with being central to a sense of home, but stricken of crashing waves or snow capped mountains.
I arrived at sunset, bearing witness to the pink clouds, bloated with rain, rolling over our fields and pond. That evening, vast liquid nourishment was provided to both. Perhaps my western upbringing has left me overly sensitized to precipitation, but I'm always stunned that any place can be so verdant and lush. While it poured down, my grandparents shared stories of their own memories on the place, and then of raising a family in the peripatetic ethos (chaos) of America's Air Force. The three of us came together with The Farm as the literal and imagined backdrop for our shared histories. The Farm, though also baseball and shuffleboard. Let's not forget that we're in 2009. I didn't milk any cows or anything.
After 36 hours with Grandma and PawPaw, the urge to revisit the interstate returned, and I hugged and kissed them farewell. They'll be the terminal bookend of my road trip, as well, when I turn Abigale the Subaru Westward and head for home. I'll stop for Thanksgiving on my return leg to Colorado, meeting with many more folks (aunts, uncles, and cousins, oh my) who remember their own youth occasionally played out on the same background.
I rolled up Rural Route N, then J, and headed further East on I-70, this time to St Louis. Though the city is the Gateway to the West, for me it's actually the gateway to East. From here, I can begin to smell the Red, can feel my fingertips begin their sweaty longing for sandstone. I'll be climbing in only a few days, though I'm still patiently meandering, still renewing acquaintance with old familiar sites and faces.
The first place I saw upon my arrival in STL was the university where I spent my first year of college. At 18, I ran to St Louis University in a snap, lazy decision to flee the anger I felt towards my father in particular, and boredom with Colorado in general. The first year was largely spent in halfhearted academic pursuit in the classroom, and in earnest attempted violence on the lacrosse fields. I marked time until I would flee, this time as a sophomore, for Spain.
To portray the year in St Louis as stolid would be an unfair assessment. My freshman year was spent in between many things, though firmly committed to none. I was uncomfortable with myself and unsure of where I was going, though not yet ready to forswear my origins. I remember with great clarity saying goodbye to my parents as they dropped me off for the academic year, wondering where I'd go now that I was no longer under my parents' thumb. The tears that this goodbye produced in my angry eyes were hastily pushed back into their ducts, though that sadness of leaving my youth hasn't been forgotten.
Today, from the very paving stone where I last remember my mother standing as she and my father left me for college, I called Mom in Colorado. I told her I loved her, and shared a reminiscent moment with her. Each of us remembered the day in 2000 with clarity, though it was subtly different to this autumn afternoon over nine years later. Today, the air was thick with the smell of french fries. Perhaps they weren't on the menu back then.
Tonight, this city will again act as a gateway, this time to my past as I'll see two friends I've kept from my days at school in the SLU system. Soon, though, I'll grow anxious, again, and aim the wheels, again, to the East. My plan is to stop in Louisville to greet one of my closest friends, Neil, and his parents in their home city. Their family is coping with the loss of Neil's grandmother. The news was all the more poignant given that my phone rang with the sad acknowledgment of her passing just yesterday while I was in the new farmhouse with my own elders. I'm glad to have seen them then, and will honor my friendship with Neil before I drive the final two hours and arrive in the Red.
Climbing can wait, at least for a few days. This drive is, certainly, a mode of transit to that outstanding recreational destination. Equally important, though, it's a way to reconnect with my friends and family, and my own past. I hope to honor all of them with some precious time. It's been a pleasure so far. I'll keep you up to date as the miles pass.
Love from Abaluba.
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