THE LAST FIVE ...

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Monday, Aug. 18, 2003 - 1:16 p.m.

The last stops on the road


South Bend to Springwater

About a year after I visited Nicky and Jane in their restored home ? a former one- or two-room schoolhouse ? Jane up and left him. Nicky came home from work one day, and she'd left a note. I don't know if we were ever really sure what the reasoning was, but I think we came to the conclusion that this was too much of the rustic life for her. It's not like the house was in shambles; in fact, it was a wonderfully quaint country home. Nicky, as an auto mechanic and ? I think ? garage owner, isn't exactly a bum and a slob who can't provide for himself. He's quite successful. And the few times we'd met Jane, she seemed happy and in love. It would've been one thing if there were arguments and problems and they drifted apart, but for her to so unexpectedly drop a "Dear John" on him was a shock to all of us. But maybe we don't know the whole story. Maybe there had been arguments and disagreements and Nicky chose to omit those.

I stayed for a night, then drove north from Springwater to the outskirts of Rochester, where I picked up the Thruway for a day's drive east across Upstate and Massachusetts to Bryan's:


Springwater to Pembroke

But I didn't write anything about the Massachusetts stopover, so there's no entry to link to. I'd been in the Bay State in June, before the trip, for two graduation parties held a week apart. In between, I went up to Maine for Christine's birthday and stopped in Lowell to explore Kerouac's hometown on the way back to Pembroke.

On this trip, I stopped at a rest area on the NY State Thruway around lunchtime. It was a warm August day, but I don't think it was too humid and uncomfortable. As I walked into the building, I noticed some of the other travelers stretching their legs and enjoying a respite from the road. But more and more they began catching my eye: younger drivers and passengers, more friends, less families. I overheard one person complimenting another on her skirt, and the wearer explaining that she'd made it herself. In the bathroom, guys with beards and long hair were washing their faces and ? for one ? feet in the sink. Sitting at a table with my Sbarro lunch, they filled the tables around me, these hippies of the late 20th century. Outside again I saw more and finally realized what brought all these young people together in their cars from all across America: A Phish sticker in the back window of a VW bus. Phish phans. When I got to Maine, I realized why they were on the road with me: the annual two-day concert at the former Loring Air Force Base in Limestone. In 1998, they called it Lemonwheel and the front-page coverage in the Portland Press Herald or the Bangor Daily News or wherever I saw it tied it all together for me.


Pembroke to Whitefield

By the time I got to Maine, my parents and sister were already up there for their annual summer vacation. I'd asked them to bring my laptop with them, and in the quiet hours of the morning or night, or when others were out or napping or otherwise engaged, I began to dive into my notes and other detritus from nearly 10,000 miles of America. But upon arriving in the late afternoon, I found a note on the door telling me that everyone was at Damariscotta Lake, about 20 minutes away, and the time they left and expected to be back. I had about half an hour, probably less, and figured that if I didn't get there fast enough to meet them, I'd pass them on the way back. The trip from Johnny's house to the lake is straightforward to the point I had it memorized when I was maybe 10: turn right out of the driveway and follow Route 218 north to Route 126. Turn right on 126 and follow it east to another highway, the number of which escapes me now, and turn left, following signs for the town of Jefferson and, then, the Damariscotta Lake State Park.

I set out to meet them but didn't make it halfway along 126 before I caught Johnny's truck and mom and dad's car flying past me the other way. I turned around and sped up to catch them, passing my father when the oncoming lane allowed with a toot and a wave. I caught up to Johnny only a few hundred yards before the turn onto 218, but I passed him nonetheless, accelerating quickly then braking hard to make the turn. Barb told me later that she wondered aloud who would speed past them only to turn so soon when Christine recognized my car and said, "Isn't that Danny?"

I figured it was a great way to end the trip, spending time in Maine in August as I'd grown accustomed to and getting a chance to do it with my parents and sister. I figured there wouldn't be too many opportunities to do just that in the future, and I don't know that we have since. Last week, only Jess was there. The time before that, I believe I was able to coordinate a few days there while my parents were visiting, but Jess missed that one.

In any case, I was able to see just about everyone in my family who was either a first cousin, aunt or uncle to myself or my parents and all of my closest college friends in the span of six weeks, 27 states and three oil changes.

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