Learning Farther
I took a quick road trip to Utah today. The place I wanted to visit to Christmas shop wasn't open, which didn't surprise me, because that's how this part of the world is. But it was worth the drive just to clear my head and inhale the optimism my little square truck seems to emit instead of carbon monoxide. Monte the Think Tank. My thoughts progressed productively, and I took some pictures of the pretty scenery while haggling with Monte about the radio. He seemed to want a silent drive and I wanted tunes, but being the willful car he is, he finally got his way. (Unless I have A-1 perfect reception, for some reason the engine noise interferes with the station until I can't stand it anymore. Same thing with the windshield wiper motor. It always happens when David Bowie comes on KJQ. I know, I know. Put the cd player that's sitting in your sister's garage in and stop complaining. I will! Sheesh.)
At the point of a canyon lined with chalky red bluffs, I happened to glance over at something that sent me into one of those instant time-warp reveries. It was the grungy little cafe at Echo, at the junction of I-80 and Hwy 84, a modified farmhouse with an add-on, rundown motel in a dusty parking lot. I remember a balmy July afternoon there a few years ago when Dad and I stopped for a late lunch on our way back from the big car show in Logan. I had a plastic aircast on my left ankle and wore my favorite stretchy denim capris and the Reefs flip-flops that seem to never wear out. The raffle car at the Logan show had been a little deuce coup, just like the one in the Beach Boys song, and it had sent Dad off into rapturous tales of his teenage years in Phoenix, drag racing on Indian School Road. Photos from that time show a big, handsome kid, a broad-shouldered football player with perfectly combed wavy blonde locks, sparkly blue eyes and a lazy grin full of white teeth. As we eased into a cracked vinyl booth in the dim cafe he was musing about his truckdriving days through those canyons, when his c.b. handle was 'Leadfoot' and every highway patrolman between Kansas City and Los Angeles wanted a piece of him (which isn't him blowing smoke; I've heard it from a lot of people). A few colorless folks in the cafe seemed to know him, and he talked with some about a guy named 'Fats' who ran the place. It was the greasiest food I'd ever seen but Dad didn't seem to notice and I figured one time wouldn't kill me, so I got fish and chips and a diet cola.
Today the place was deserted except for a primered black and red Scottsdale with a camper shell and a skinny chocolate Lab. It looked open and I thought about stopping but remembered something from a snippet of conversation at the High Stakes lounge a few weeks ago on a Wednesday night, when Jo's husband Don said "the place hasn't been the same since old Fats died." He had to mean the Echo Cafe; he was a truck driver, too.
Usually it's smells and songs that assault my memory, but the thought of that good summer day has me wondering if I'll ever get Dad to a car show again. He had a hard time walking those uneven, grassy lanes full of his beloved glossy machines even then, and had to peer out of his good eye to point out special engine modifications or recite historical facts about each model, dropping famous names like candy. He's failing the way many vivacious people do, swiftly and sullenly. The once bright blue eyes are still piercing but the left one is tinged a dark green by the blood seeping behind, blotting out the world, so he squints it and turns his head, hawklike, to make better use of the other. He walks with a walker or cane or pushing a wheelchair, careful of the oxygen hose that tangles him up in the hall. He has a truly superior mind but without 20/20 vision and 100% mobility he seems to feel he has nothing to offer. He's always been active; he's never had a career that didn't involve momentum. From copper miner to hunting guide to ranch hand to mechanic to trucker to owning a cab company and everything in between, he's never sat at a desk stacked with charts or forms or waited idly for a consumer to come to him with a need. There's always been something to do. There was always an activity for his mind and hands, so that he now seems plagued by unexpended energy and irritation at immobility. I'm sure he had no idea at the time, but sitting down to wait until he was better enough to continue is probably what ensured the fact that he probably never will be. Not for me but for him do I hope there's something after this life, some beautiful state where ability is restored to us and our time is filled with good and useful tasks.
On a lighter note, I got a half-expected and highly-anticipated phone call from a semi-long lost friend today, which makes me super glad. So I'll have a visitor after the holidays, which is just grand but means I'll need to clean my house. I got to thinking and realized I haven't done the dishes since before Veterans' Day and there's a pile of car parts in the middle of the living room floor. Still, I can't think of a better excuse to clean up.
I went with my sister and her husband to the Legal Tender (Evanston's tacky meet market) at midnight last night, after her company Christmas party relocated from the Elks Lodge. I've recently come to the conclusion that if you're going out, you have to start drinking when everybody else does or you totally lose perspective. I had two very strong rum-and-cokes in an hour and came home pensive, and I woke up this morning in the same annoying mode. It seems bound to persist so I'll turn to other creative outlets that don't harrow up my soul as much as writing. I also woke up thinking about how blood, when it's present, is always the richest color in the room, and how you can't trust anyone named Starla (no offense if that's your name, I'm sure it was just a dream), and how the men I want always seem to want me only when I'm not available. Thank the Lord I can't remember the details of whatever subconscious wanderings brought these thoughts on, but I'm sure they came about because no one told me 'happy nightmares' before I went to sleep. The shnockered, sequin-spattered wife of an ex-CEO told me I was blessed and to go in peace, but it didn't seem to have the same effect; if anything, it made things worse. I'm looking forward to Christmas but things always seem to get a little weird this time of year, and I'm always tempted to say things no one wants to hear. Maybe I'll ask someone to censor my blog until January 10th. Or maybe I'll just post pictures. After all, they're worth a thousand words each.
At the point of a canyon lined with chalky red bluffs, I happened to glance over at something that sent me into one of those instant time-warp reveries. It was the grungy little cafe at Echo, at the junction of I-80 and Hwy 84, a modified farmhouse with an add-on, rundown motel in a dusty parking lot. I remember a balmy July afternoon there a few years ago when Dad and I stopped for a late lunch on our way back from the big car show in Logan. I had a plastic aircast on my left ankle and wore my favorite stretchy denim capris and the Reefs flip-flops that seem to never wear out. The raffle car at the Logan show had been a little deuce coup, just like the one in the Beach Boys song, and it had sent Dad off into rapturous tales of his teenage years in Phoenix, drag racing on Indian School Road. Photos from that time show a big, handsome kid, a broad-shouldered football player with perfectly combed wavy blonde locks, sparkly blue eyes and a lazy grin full of white teeth. As we eased into a cracked vinyl booth in the dim cafe he was musing about his truckdriving days through those canyons, when his c.b. handle was 'Leadfoot' and every highway patrolman between Kansas City and Los Angeles wanted a piece of him (which isn't him blowing smoke; I've heard it from a lot of people). A few colorless folks in the cafe seemed to know him, and he talked with some about a guy named 'Fats' who ran the place. It was the greasiest food I'd ever seen but Dad didn't seem to notice and I figured one time wouldn't kill me, so I got fish and chips and a diet cola.
Today the place was deserted except for a primered black and red Scottsdale with a camper shell and a skinny chocolate Lab. It looked open and I thought about stopping but remembered something from a snippet of conversation at the High Stakes lounge a few weeks ago on a Wednesday night, when Jo's husband Don said "the place hasn't been the same since old Fats died." He had to mean the Echo Cafe; he was a truck driver, too.
Usually it's smells and songs that assault my memory, but the thought of that good summer day has me wondering if I'll ever get Dad to a car show again. He had a hard time walking those uneven, grassy lanes full of his beloved glossy machines even then, and had to peer out of his good eye to point out special engine modifications or recite historical facts about each model, dropping famous names like candy. He's failing the way many vivacious people do, swiftly and sullenly. The once bright blue eyes are still piercing but the left one is tinged a dark green by the blood seeping behind, blotting out the world, so he squints it and turns his head, hawklike, to make better use of the other. He walks with a walker or cane or pushing a wheelchair, careful of the oxygen hose that tangles him up in the hall. He has a truly superior mind but without 20/20 vision and 100% mobility he seems to feel he has nothing to offer. He's always been active; he's never had a career that didn't involve momentum. From copper miner to hunting guide to ranch hand to mechanic to trucker to owning a cab company and everything in between, he's never sat at a desk stacked with charts or forms or waited idly for a consumer to come to him with a need. There's always been something to do. There was always an activity for his mind and hands, so that he now seems plagued by unexpended energy and irritation at immobility. I'm sure he had no idea at the time, but sitting down to wait until he was better enough to continue is probably what ensured the fact that he probably never will be. Not for me but for him do I hope there's something after this life, some beautiful state where ability is restored to us and our time is filled with good and useful tasks.
On a lighter note, I got a half-expected and highly-anticipated phone call from a semi-long lost friend today, which makes me super glad. So I'll have a visitor after the holidays, which is just grand but means I'll need to clean my house. I got to thinking and realized I haven't done the dishes since before Veterans' Day and there's a pile of car parts in the middle of the living room floor. Still, I can't think of a better excuse to clean up.
I went with my sister and her husband to the Legal Tender (Evanston's tacky meet market) at midnight last night, after her company Christmas party relocated from the Elks Lodge. I've recently come to the conclusion that if you're going out, you have to start drinking when everybody else does or you totally lose perspective. I had two very strong rum-and-cokes in an hour and came home pensive, and I woke up this morning in the same annoying mode. It seems bound to persist so I'll turn to other creative outlets that don't harrow up my soul as much as writing. I also woke up thinking about how blood, when it's present, is always the richest color in the room, and how you can't trust anyone named Starla (no offense if that's your name, I'm sure it was just a dream), and how the men I want always seem to want me only when I'm not available. Thank the Lord I can't remember the details of whatever subconscious wanderings brought these thoughts on, but I'm sure they came about because no one told me 'happy nightmares' before I went to sleep. The shnockered, sequin-spattered wife of an ex-CEO told me I was blessed and to go in peace, but it didn't seem to have the same effect; if anything, it made things worse. I'm looking forward to Christmas but things always seem to get a little weird this time of year, and I'm always tempted to say things no one wants to hear. Maybe I'll ask someone to censor my blog until January 10th. Or maybe I'll just post pictures. After all, they're worth a thousand words each.
posted by A at
3:42 PM
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