The Heart of America

My wife was the "guest essayist" in the Grand Rapids Press on Sunday. It makes me wonder about the paper, when one of the paper's reporters interview her, and then get the basic facts wrong. We were never "ski bums," our friends were. Chicago is not her hometown: we once lived there. Etc.

Pretty lame.

It really is a great article, though.

Link.

A Journey to the Heart of America
Sunday, July 02, 2006
The Grand Rapids Press

Four years ago, my husband, Martin, and I planned a cross-country move. After having our first son, Dylan, we decided to leave our complicated and expensive life in the Bay Area for a hopefully simpler one in my college town, Grand Rapids.

My parents, Chuck and Carol, had been planning a cross-country adventure, too, and asked if they could join us. The more the merrier, we thought. In retrospect, I see that perhaps I still had a little bit of baby brain because I obviously overlooked some very key factors in the planning process.

Our trip began on the eve of June 29. We had spent the day loading up the van, cleaning the rented apartment, and saying our goodbyes. We made it only three hours out of the Bay Area in Northern California that night to the mountains around Truckee, Nev., a name that illusively implies "good times." Little did we know what the future held. But we were in the mountains, cool, and eager to see some land. The next day the descent began -- the descent into Nevada's desert.

We had two vehicles, a new Penske rental van on its maiden voyage and a 10-year-old Subaru station wagon. My husband and my dad rode in the van for most of the drive, in cool comfort. My mom, son, dog, and I, on the other hand, were in the wagon, packed full of all the leftover things we couldn't fit in the van, despite my dad's genius spatial IQ scores.

The bike rack temporarily held our wicker furniture -- our crowning achievement, Beverly Hillbillies-style. I was driving and as co-pilot, our aging Golden Retriever. In the backseat, my mom was feverishly (literally) trying to keep my 3-month-old son happy.

Not even three hours out of Truckee, on the desert floor, the temperatures began rising into the high 90s. It was not even noon. Then, and only then, did we realize what the main oversight back in Berkeley had been: the air conditioning. I had bought new tires, changed the oil. How could I forget the air? My mom was in the back seat trying to convince me that she was not hot and, while she is a very stoic woman, she is not a good liar. My baby was crying. My dog in the passenger seat, panting.

Not only were we making the trip through the Nevada desert in the height of summer, we were doing it with all our worldly possessions and an old car without air. We were doing it with my 3-month old child, an old dog and our 70-year-old parents, who said they didn't feel as "young" as they used to. What had I been thinking?

In Winnemucca, Nev., we found a service station and were brusquely told we were out of freon. After what seemed to be hours of waiting, they sent us on our way. This was day2.

Hitting the red zone

Day 3. We thought we had left the worst behind us, but immediately the temperature gauge began rising into the red as we headed into the dreaded Great Salt Lake Desert. We limped through the 30-mile stretch, turning the AC off every time the gauge hit red, until we got to Salt Lake, where we had the coolant flushed and more freon added. Our $300 of freon had supposedly leaked out all over eastern Nevada.

Day 4. We headed out the next morning with diminished enthusiasm, waning hope and gallons of ice water for the car (and us). At what must have been the only rest stop in the entire state of Wyoming, they curtly told us we had blown a thermostat, an easy repair in our new world. We were on our way in what seemed the blink of an eye.

By now my heart began beating fast every time I got behind the wheel. I felt so responsible for these people.

Then, it happened. The car simply stopped in the middle of the highway, and I thought I was going to have a massive heart attack right there. I pulled off the road, in the shade of the overpass, whipped out my cell phone, and called 911. I had had about enough of this. How much more could we take? The operator efficiently dispatched me to the nearest towing company. The tow truck driver said most shops were closed for the day and that tomorrow was the Fourth and no one would be working. My mom asked for a bus schedule.

We finally found a shop still open in Kearney, Neb. The alternator had burned out. I remember taking the mechanic, a kind-faced, older man, aside. In my head, I was thinking every imaginable crazy thought. With my mouth I simply whispered a soft and defeated, "Please." He said yes. Our good Samaritan said yes, he would come in on his day off and have it done before noon.

A holiday moment

After I had got my son to bed that night, I went outside our Motel 6 for a walk. As I cleared the side of the building, like out of the movies, there they were -- fireworks. Huge fireworks. The nicest fireworks I have ever seen in my life. Here in this small farm town in Nebraska I was witnessing a financial fireworks commitment equivalent to Sydney, Australia. I sat utterly stunned.

While I am most certainly grateful to have been born in America, I guess I love my country in the realistic way one loves a spouse. I have spent 30-something years with it and love it very deeply, but I also know its faults and some days, I admit, those faults are all that I can see. But something about these couple of days gave me a fresh appreciation for it, especially for its center.

The next day, we picked up our car at noon, just as the mechanic promised, and began again. Except this was our pivotal point. After Kearney, not one crisis arose, not even a small missed turn or hungry baby in the middle of traffic. It was sheer and utter bliss.

Sweet rewards

At a rest stop outside Kearney, under a flag-covered awning, sat several veterans and their wives. They were serving up fresh, homemade cookies -- for free. We could barely believe our eyes.

"They are giving out free homemade cookies," my husband screamed. "At a rest stop, can you believe it?"

We all began to laugh. Crying inside.

As crazy as it may sound, to our weary traveling eyes on that day, those homemade cookies looked like the hand of God. All had been made right again for us right there in America's Heartland, with its big, beating and generous heart. Here we had seen true kindness, efficiency and honesty. We had been taken care of, instead of dealt with or taken advantage of. I am not sure Kearney operates this way always, but for us, on the Fourth of July 2002, our spell had been broken.

We sailed home in record time. Here was the cathartic, smooth sailing I envisioned the entire trip to be. Not one moment was dull in my eyes. The boring cornfields of Iowa were ecstasy. The crazy highway changes on the outskirts of Chicago were electrifying.

It was as if we had landed on a cloud that floated us home. The car didn't sputter, the baby didn't cry, the dog didn't pant, and my heart rate slowed to a calm, steady beat.

We arrived home at my parent's house in Fremont on the evening of July 5. My parents ran downtown, where my dad made his date to sing in the Fourth of July production.

My husband, son, dog and I just sat outside on the porch of my childhood home. We sat still and sucked in the warm, humid Midwestern air for the first time. We were smiling. It tasted delicious.