Thursday, July 19, 2012
Why didn't someone remind me about New Jersey?
I guess there was no getting around it--going to New Jersey, I mean. I haven't been there in years, and I had deluded myself that going on the Garden State Parkway for a good part of the way would make the rest of the ride more tolerable. Wrong. The Garden State Parkway is quite lovely, reminiscent of the Merritt Parkway back in the day, two lanes, tree shrouded, and, if memory serves, trailer truck free. Once we linked from the Garden State to the NJ Turnpike, however, the whole game changed. First, it was the planes at Newark Airport skimming the overpasses, and then the frenzy of the six lanes of traffic. I'm a Boston driver, after all, and I've driven in Manhattan a number of times, but the Jersey Turnpike tests the mettle of even the most veteran drivers. Then, to top it off, there's the "scenery"-- oil tanks, smoking pipes, freight yards, and the like. The one difference is that it no longer smells like burning rubber, which it did many years ago. Then you had to try to stop breathing until you reached Philadelphia. Certainly it's a bustling area of commerce, but that's the problem in a way--add bustling to frenzy, and you have a highly charged combination which doesn't lend itself to relaxing driving. Oh well, guess I'm just not a Jersey girl!
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Maps from Long Ago
'We carry with us maps from long ago.," writes Julie Checkoway in her memoir Maps, an account of her deprived childhood and later travel and research in China.
The first leg of our trip was both a going forward and a looping back. My long-ago maps were first refreshed when we left Auburn, MA, our first stop "west" and went through Sturbridge to get on Rt. 84. Sturbridge has been a significant place in my life for many years, first as a half-way spot between Providence and Lee, where my best friend Judy lived. We would meet for a picnic at the Brimfield Reservoir with her aunt's dog Poochie, and later with my friends Jim and Patty from Attleboro. In later years, that same spot became the place of the Judy-swap when Judy was visiting from Kansas and her sister Mickey would meet us there for lunch and an exchange of Judy and her luggage.
Moving further west, we encountered Danbury, Connecticut, the biggest city near Ridgefield, where we lived when we were first married. I taught at Darien High School while there, the same school that my dear friend Patty had attended, thus linking pieces of my present with my past and the friends with whom I'd crossed paths. Driving into White Plains and to the Tappan Zee Bridge brought back memories of trips to New York City when we lived in Ridgefield, going to meet my mother at the Scottish games, and traveling to see Michael's family in Delaware.
The most vivid maps I experienced on the drive were those on the New Jersey and Pennsylvania Turnpikes. My earliest memories of the road in New Jersey were of driving to Pennsylvania in the 1950s so that my father could play with his dance band in Ligonier, PA at the Rolling Rock Club, a private club with members of the famous Mellon family. New Jersey played a large role in my life again as I attended Rutgers, my first graduate school, to study English literature for one glorious semester in 1968. On this trip, we stayed in nearby East Brunswick (more on New Jersey in another post), a confusing, bustling web of large strip malls on a divided highway. The only way to get here from there, it turns out, is by driving about half a mile to a turn lane, looping around, and going back in the other direction. A blur of cars, glass, large display signs: consumerism at its hectic best. If you miss the turn--you've got it!--you repeat the process at the next turnaround.
These maps or memories so moved me that I suddenly began to cry crossing a bridge on the Penn. Turnpike. Tears out of nowhere, seemingly. Memories of driving with my parents, watching for "my" Palomino horse at the Ligonier exit, staying in hotels for the first time and eating out a lot. Not fast food, as I told my students recently, but local restaurant fare, Howard Johnson's, or picnic fixin's from a nearby grocery. The NJ and Penn Turnpikes were the first highways of their kind back in the '50s, with most roads being two, sometimes three lanes at most. Now the NJ Turnpike is 6 lanes on each side, divided through New Brunswick by 3 lanes for cars only and 3 for cars, trucks, and other vehicles.
Those early "adventures" shaped my life in many ways, opening up the possibilities of travel, meeting people different from those in Boston, and learning, from my parents' example, how to navigate not only the highways of the time, but the subtle cultural differences and ways of being that exist in just the span from Mass. to Penn. Curious that my parents' peers used to wonder what such adventures would deprive me of--the small house with the white picket fence, living in the same neighborhood until grown, stability, etc.--but they rarely thought about what the experiences would provide or understood that with your family as your core and a delight in the open road, the other elements would not be so necessary.
The first leg of our trip was both a going forward and a looping back. My long-ago maps were first refreshed when we left Auburn, MA, our first stop "west" and went through Sturbridge to get on Rt. 84. Sturbridge has been a significant place in my life for many years, first as a half-way spot between Providence and Lee, where my best friend Judy lived. We would meet for a picnic at the Brimfield Reservoir with her aunt's dog Poochie, and later with my friends Jim and Patty from Attleboro. In later years, that same spot became the place of the Judy-swap when Judy was visiting from Kansas and her sister Mickey would meet us there for lunch and an exchange of Judy and her luggage.
Moving further west, we encountered Danbury, Connecticut, the biggest city near Ridgefield, where we lived when we were first married. I taught at Darien High School while there, the same school that my dear friend Patty had attended, thus linking pieces of my present with my past and the friends with whom I'd crossed paths. Driving into White Plains and to the Tappan Zee Bridge brought back memories of trips to New York City when we lived in Ridgefield, going to meet my mother at the Scottish games, and traveling to see Michael's family in Delaware.
The most vivid maps I experienced on the drive were those on the New Jersey and Pennsylvania Turnpikes. My earliest memories of the road in New Jersey were of driving to Pennsylvania in the 1950s so that my father could play with his dance band in Ligonier, PA at the Rolling Rock Club, a private club with members of the famous Mellon family. New Jersey played a large role in my life again as I attended Rutgers, my first graduate school, to study English literature for one glorious semester in 1968. On this trip, we stayed in nearby East Brunswick (more on New Jersey in another post), a confusing, bustling web of large strip malls on a divided highway. The only way to get here from there, it turns out, is by driving about half a mile to a turn lane, looping around, and going back in the other direction. A blur of cars, glass, large display signs: consumerism at its hectic best. If you miss the turn--you've got it!--you repeat the process at the next turnaround.
These maps or memories so moved me that I suddenly began to cry crossing a bridge on the Penn. Turnpike. Tears out of nowhere, seemingly. Memories of driving with my parents, watching for "my" Palomino horse at the Ligonier exit, staying in hotels for the first time and eating out a lot. Not fast food, as I told my students recently, but local restaurant fare, Howard Johnson's, or picnic fixin's from a nearby grocery. The NJ and Penn Turnpikes were the first highways of their kind back in the '50s, with most roads being two, sometimes three lanes at most. Now the NJ Turnpike is 6 lanes on each side, divided through New Brunswick by 3 lanes for cars only and 3 for cars, trucks, and other vehicles.
Those early "adventures" shaped my life in many ways, opening up the possibilities of travel, meeting people different from those in Boston, and learning, from my parents' example, how to navigate not only the highways of the time, but the subtle cultural differences and ways of being that exist in just the span from Mass. to Penn. Curious that my parents' peers used to wonder what such adventures would deprive me of--the small house with the white picket fence, living in the same neighborhood until grown, stability, etc.--but they rarely thought about what the experiences would provide or understood that with your family as your core and a delight in the open road, the other elements would not be so necessary.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Getting outta town
Winchester kept a grip on us much longer than we hoped it would. Ironic, isn't it? We'd lived there 24 years, and despite the fact that it is a quite charming town, I was never entirely comfortable there. Why, you might ask? Not comfortable in suburban heaven? Well, I was always an outsider, always the other, a city kid: the liberal Democrat (some might say radical), the lover of diversity, not only of people but of offerings, opportunities, opinions; I was also one of the first people who challenged the quality of the highly-rated school system and made waves about racist behavior at the private clubs. I carved out a role of being "a thorn in one's side," and could be counted on to question the status quo and the lust for homogeneity. Made me very popular.
Well, to return to the moving saga, we were originally going to leave on the 11th, then the 12th. Around 9 p.m. on the 12th, with our bed, chairs, and almost everything else packed in the U-Haul pod and our cars except trash, we decided to go to the Comfort Inn in faraway Woburn, a couple of miles up the road! We kept sight-seeing to a minimum (!) and just flopped into bed, exhausted.
Friday we went back to our house early and worked almost the entire day again, "redding up" as my Scottish grandmother used to say--cleaning, tidying, tossing out the dregs. This, mind you, after having had three yard sales, numerous Ebay and craigslist sales, furniture and book give-aways to friends, and about 8 trips to the used bookstore in Burlington (Michael became so well known there for his pickup truck loads of books that they cheerfully greeted him and directed him to the loading dock in the rear). It's beyond embarrassing, if you think about it--I'd really rather not. The problem, really, is being literate, you see: if we weren't, we would have had pristine rooms sans books, papers, and magazines. And let's not even get into the graduate work, the theses, and so on.
Determined to leave on Friday night, we booked a room in Auburn and left yet more stuff for 1-800-JUNK and a cleaning person who helped to ready the house for the market. Finally an hour and a half away from Winchester, we were on our way at last.
Well, to return to the moving saga, we were originally going to leave on the 11th, then the 12th. Around 9 p.m. on the 12th, with our bed, chairs, and almost everything else packed in the U-Haul pod and our cars except trash, we decided to go to the Comfort Inn in faraway Woburn, a couple of miles up the road! We kept sight-seeing to a minimum (!) and just flopped into bed, exhausted.
Friday we went back to our house early and worked almost the entire day again, "redding up" as my Scottish grandmother used to say--cleaning, tidying, tossing out the dregs. This, mind you, after having had three yard sales, numerous Ebay and craigslist sales, furniture and book give-aways to friends, and about 8 trips to the used bookstore in Burlington (Michael became so well known there for his pickup truck loads of books that they cheerfully greeted him and directed him to the loading dock in the rear). It's beyond embarrassing, if you think about it--I'd really rather not. The problem, really, is being literate, you see: if we weren't, we would have had pristine rooms sans books, papers, and magazines. And let's not even get into the graduate work, the theses, and so on.
Determined to leave on Friday night, we booked a room in Auburn and left yet more stuff for 1-800-JUNK and a cleaning person who helped to ready the house for the market. Finally an hour and a half away from Winchester, we were on our way at last.
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