Dearest Rachel –
Honestly, I never thought I would be setting foot in Macomb again. I may know my way around the place, even after all this time, but I couldn’t imagine having a need to return there.
Of course, as it turned out, it wasn’t a need of mine that brought me back. With Ellen’s mom needing to be nearer to her daughters (so they could better look after her – she’s getting toward your folks’ age by now), it was necessary to get her out of there as well; so as it happens, this trip would not only be my last trip down there, but one of the last trips for Ellen and her family as well (barring a little more picking up and legal paperwork thereafter). Every one of us is leaving the place behind.
I wouldn’t expect you to say anything like ‘good riddance to bad rubbish,’ but once your folks were gone, there really didn’t seem to be anything holding you there, either. I would imagine that you wouldn’t mind moving on from there, in any event; after all, you’d already spent more than half your life up here as opposed to down there. These suburbs were more your home than Macomb by the time you had to depart.
Still, I didn’t know what to expect from this last foray to the place, even down to the question of what and how much to pack. I knew we’d be there overnight, but would I need more than just toiletries and a change of clothes?
Due to her experience driving large vehicles like buses, Kerstin had already volunteered to drive the U-Haul (“Can you believe they let just anyone drive these things?” she said at one point, and given that we got hit by pretty strong crosswinds at several points along the interstate, I understand her amazement. How would someone only accustomed to low-slung subcompacts have handled being blown out of their lane like that?), but as these beasts of burden have no amenities to speak of – they don’t even have cruise control, let alone Bluetooth connections for the radio speaker – I was along for the ride as much to keep her mind occupied as for my muscle (such as I have).
It’s somewhat ironic that she’s been down to your hometown (and stayed there, for weeks on end) since the last time I’ve been there. She was there on assignment with her bus company some time in the past year, along with various places like Beloit and Mount Vernon – apparently, being willing to travel pays much better than sticking to the local routes. Essentially, she knows the place every bit as well as, or better than, I do, despite my long experience with the various routes to get there and certain corners of the town once there. Then again, the route and corners I know are different than the ones she was and is familiar with, so she was willing to defer to me for the sake of a unique experience.
It’s weird how, despite you having been brought up in a family that didn’t go out to eat all that often (considering it to be something of an overindulgent frivolity, I think), it’s the restaurants we stop(ped) at along the way that bring back the memories. Maybe it’s the fact that, while the people that connected us to these places are gone, the restaurants still stand (especially if they’re good as all that), so it’s that one thing that we can still visit and have a literal taste of the past even as we address a need in the present.
We talked about the town, and our times with you, throughout the first leg of the journey, but once we finished lunch and drove out west rather than southwest, there didn’t seem to be much to say anymore – I’m not sure why. I spent the next couple of hours playing music on my phone as loud as it would play, which was barely enough to be clearly heard above the U-Haul’s motor.
The last fifteen miles or so were a particular combination of familiar and unfamiliar. Familiar, as we drove through the grease spot on the road that is New Philadelphia – basically, what’s left of Howard Motors, where you got your original cranberry PT Cruiser that you had to replace with the silver one we eventually got painted a proper purple – and came to the “nine-mile Y” that is Route 136 heading into town; unfamiliar because we had to turn off of Route 136 onto Route 67 to get to Ellen’s mom’s place several miles south of the town center and the university. Down here, nothing felt familiar, and I was glad for the map application showing us where we were; you might have known the area, but it was all liminal space to me.
I was going to describe the entire weekend in a single letter, honey, but I think I’ll save the packing and the return for later; I’ve gone on long enough as it is, and I need to get on with the day. I may be able to get back to this later, but I’m barely into the time spent down there – let alone the trip home. So I’m going to break this up a little bit, and fill you in on more later. There isn’t quite as much about loneliness and painful memories than I thought there would be, in any event (partly because we kept pretty busy – no time to dwell on stuff like that when you’re either working or resting from work).
In either case, though, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 