Judy P's Tickle Trunk

…..or An Extraordinarily Exciting Day in the Life of a Snowbird.

Bleak Mersey River scene.

It was time to leave Nova Scotia for warmer climes. The colour was gone from the landscape and it looked especially bleak when the dams up-river held back  water for the day. The boats were hauled and stowed. We loaded up the SUV and spread our tiny wings. I wrote the following while driving:

The spires of the Mormon Tabernacle in Maryland.

It is the usual arrangement: I am wedged into the front seat between all my accoutrements. An activity bag takes up the most space; laptop, lapdesk, book, scribbler, ten thousand pens (blue and black only) knitting, wet wipes, dry wipes, water bottle, lighter (bought last year to remove a tick, apparently not the recommended method, I later learned) and oh so much more. Behind me is a bag of snacks: left-over Chinese food, half a deli sandwich, granola bars (which are seriously lacking in granola) chocolate coated candy and candy coated chocolate. Some conga bars and oh so much more. My favourite road snack is a lightly curried egg salad sandwich washed down with Coke classic and strong coffee, a cinnamon bun for dessert and a lemon drop to top it all off. I am partial to sassafras drops as well. The radio is off today and we are watching the trees glide by in silence. (BB King Bluesville wore thin somewhere in Maine.) I am not much of a chatterer unless my tongue bolts are lubed up with a little red wine. The foliage is just starting to gear up for autumn in earnest in this area. It is hard to admire in this bright sunlight through glass; fall leaves are best viewed in the golden light of morning or evening after a quick shower of rain. But they are pretty enough. I try to find patterns in the tall hardwoods; gold then red then rust then green then gold and on it goes until I nod off and wake up to see that everything is suddenly green again as we pass a random stand of pine then back to gold, then red then green. Did a random pinecone fall off the back of passing tractor trailer to cause this anomaly? I vow we shall always drive south at just this time of year but I tell no one. My jaw bolts would creak if I tried to speak now. The two days in the DC area were certainly a rest but I wouldn’t call them restorative.

Driving on these major highways requires all of my patience. I am not good at sitting still for such long stretches and with all my necessities piled around me it is difficult to even dance a tiny jig to ward off the stagnation in my lower legs. I wiggle my toes inside my shoes. Insufficient. I kick off my shoes and have a real good wriggle as I watch the road unfold. A Greyhound bus goes past and I marvel at the wonderful greyhound logo. Does it smack of Art Deco or do I just have art deco on the brain since I visited an exhibit of Japanese Art Deco yesterday. Wish I could draw that well. The occasional turkey buzzard circles overhead. Then a group (is that considered a flock? I wonder) of turkey buzzards circle and I wonder what is dead in the woods. There is a surprisingly small amount of roadkill. Might be because of all the high walls built along the highway. Is it to keep the suburbanites from wandering out of their backyards and onto the road or has Donald Duck been practicing for the presidency. Donald Duck. I shudder.  I see a sign that promises LODGING. Lodging. Is that a word you have ever used in a sentence in your lifetime? Hey Lance, what are we going to do for lodging tonight? Is there any lodging close to the highway in such and such a place?  (Does anyone ever actually say such and such out loud?) Lodging. The word evokes a low slung hand-hewn log building with a stone chimney, a couple of horses tethered to a rail, and a dim room full of pipe smoke and weary travelers. The word lodging does not evoke an image of a Super 8 or Motel 6.

The trees open up and we cross the Rappahannock River. There is scarce little water on the Rappahannock River. You could cross it today without rolling up your peddle-pushers (you may know them as clam-diggers, or if you are real fancy, cropped pants). Where have I heard of this river? Something to do with the civil war? We are driving through civil war country it seems. This is battlefield country. We drive past a sign announcing that we are approaching Spotsylvania. What an unusual name.  Is it full of vampire dogs? Is that a real farm I see with a rail fence or is it just an attraction; a tourist destination? “Come visit a real live functional farm” then drive five minutes down the road and shop at the Real Live Farm outlets. Or eat at the Cracker Barrel. Why are there so many Cracker Barrels? Then go to the Sleep Inn. Can’t decide if that hotel name is cute (sleep in) or uninspired.

A tiny red and black Smart Car passes us on the right and the driver flips a lit cigarette out of the window. The window has been lowered just far enough to allow her two fingers holding the cigarette to pass through. Heaven forbid she lose any of that precious smoke.  A BMW convertible with the top down passes us on the left and then pulls in front and immediately slows down to a speed slower than we were going when he passed us. I get a glimpse of his tiny bald head which reminds me of Mr. Burns. Soon he pulls out and passes the next vehicle and repeats the business of pulling back in front of them and slowing down. Later he passes and moves speedily out of sight. I surmise that he believes that the centre lane is just for use while texting.  I have already noticed that the cars being driven by people who are texting almost always have dents.

The landscape starts to change a little and now there are more fields. The fields are bordered by billboards. The billboards are bordered by fences. The fences are bordered by suburbs. One billboard is hosting a collection of cows. (Is this a flock? No, a herd) Another hosts a collection of turkey buzzards on the wing. The temperature is slowly rising. It is now sixty degrees. Not Celsius.

We stick to the middle lane and in a stupor I stare at the drivers of the cars we are passing. They are texting, talking on their phones, gesticulating for their passengers, picking their noses, daydreaming, planning, smoking, scratching and only one woman is smiling. We pass a small convoy of smaller utility trucks. The lead one, the one towing a trailer carrying a machine that has a stovepipe, is the same shade of light blue as a 1960s wide-lapel wedding suit. The driver has a purposeful look on his face as his strong tanned forearm stretches over the steering wheel. I speculate that he would have the same look driving a covered wagon. Which makes me think of chuck wagons which makes me think of food. Time for a pit stop.

Destination: Florida.

© Judy Parsons 2016

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