There are innovations for this trip East, one I have made a score of times. I departed in leisurely manner on Monday instead of rushing off on Sunday afternoon. Quiet and productive Sunday afternoons are precious, and rare during the academic year; I treasure them. I completed my packing on Monday morning instead of Saturday afternoon; I ate a solid Monday breakfast at home, sufficient for me to nibble bread and fruit as I drove the rest of the day; I visited with my wife instead of rushing off without conversation.
I took the Basic Route that I have most often used: I-74. This would give me a good sleeping place at the Indiana rest area at milepost 150, between Indianapolis and Cincinnati. It was an easy and comfortable drive through the agricultural heart of America. I arrived at the rest area in time to finish Evensong before dark.
A large sign proclaimed “No overnight parking or camping,” causing me some unease. But no one awakened me; I had a restful night's sleep and was ready to roll by 4 am local time.
Tuesday, July 5
The early start allowed me to sail around the Cincinnati Beltway before dawn, eating a chunk of bread as I drove. The first light of day and the onset of heavier traffic arrived about the time I stopped for fuel at New Richmond, on U.S. 52 upriver from the city. I drove a few more miles to Point Pleasant and the rest area by the Ohio River, across the highway from the birthplace of Ulysses S Grant. I watched the morning light come to the river, and took an hour's nap to let the morning fog clear.
It lifted, a little. But the sun did not break through until well into the day. I drove most of the way southeast to Portsmouth with the river a mist-shrouded presence on my right.
There is an old-fashioned highway rest stop near Portsmouth at Sandy Point, about a hundred miles upriver from Cincinnati. I sang Matins there, with slow progress through the Sefer Tehillim making the Office extend beyond an hour.
Always before on my drives Eastward, there was haste; Mother was waiting, begrudging the hours I lingered on the way. My principal purpose in this trip is unchanged: a visit to my parents. But this time, they are in no hurry.
From the West Virginia line, my path was in doubt: the quicker way through Charleston and Beckley on the interstates, or the more enjoyable way down State Route 10 through Logan and the coalfields of Wyoming County, along the Guyandotte River? It seemed a choice of little import, but it did no harm to ask: “Lord, which should I take?” As soon as a sense came to take the quicker way, a rebellious voice urged me to indulge myself with the scenic route. It was a surprisingly intense struggle over such a little thing.
I arrived at my destination in the mid-afternoon, hungry, tired from the traffic-choked highway, low on fuel. A perplexing two hours followed, in which my options for sleeping in the car evaporated – not the truck stop, which was defunct; not the Wal-Mart parking lot, which was posted; no campgrounds closer than a state park a half-hour's drive away. I got back on the road and drove there, just missing the 4:00 closing of the campground office. There were a few sites available and I could claim one, as the sign on the office door indicated. But I could not leave until I checked out and paid the next morning at an undisclosed hour.
I returned to town. Now I was facing the prospect of the florist closing for the day. I went there, bought a bouquet of daisies with five minutes to spare, took it to the cemetery, and found myself too agitated for a proper visitation. I left the flowers with water in the bronze vase, and headed for the funeral home. Eight months have passed, and there was no placard on the headstone with Mother's date of death.
It was obvious that the secretary of the funeral home did not want to see me, this unshaven old hillbilly in T-shirt and jeans, not with dressed-up people arriving for a wake and staring at me. The secretary told me that the placard was the family's responsibility, not theirs. I clearly remembered otherwise, and said so. She called Mr. S., the proprietor. He said that he would take care of it and send us a bill, and got me out the door as quickly and quietly as possible.
I still had no place to park my car. I drove across town and registered at an old motel that had been there since my childhood. I balked at the price: $60.61. But it proved to be a fine clean room where I slept well, did Pilates in the morning, showered and shaved, and ate breakfast in a plastic chair outside my door, watching the end of a morning rain shower.
The lady at the desk was young, blonde, and pretty, with “West Virginia teeth” as I have described elsewhere – crooked, two of them missing, the others tobacco-stained. She and her husband (who came over to introduce himself as I ate breakfast) bought the motel and are trying to make a go of this old landmark, now surrounded by big chain motels. May God bless them in this endeavor, in its way a battle against the Principalities and Powers.
Finally, I could slow down. After registering at the motel, I fueled the Honda, considering how the “little” decision of which route to drive through West Virginia had proven to be not so little. Had I taken the other road, I would have arrived too late to deal with the funeral home, too late to buy flowers that day.
I wish I were more attentive to the “still, small voice.” And I wish that I would do what it says when it comes. The Collect for next Sunday applies:
O Lord, we beseech thee mercifully to receive the prayers of thy people who call upon thee, and grant that they may both perceive and know what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to fulfill the same; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
After some thought, I drove to a local cafeteria where Mother and I enjoyed many luncheons until the final years when it became too hard for her to go out. I had a splendid dinner of vegetables and their fine Soft Rolls and Cornbread, finishing with a $10 tab, a stack of nine vegetable dishes and two bread plates.
At last, I made it to the graveside, the daisies blowing prettily in the evening breeze.
What does one do after driving a thousand miles to visit a grave? More is needed than flowers and a quick prayer. I sang Evensong, followed by the Burial Office (Rite One), with three readings, Psalms, prayers, and the Committal service. Yes, they have already been committed to the earth and to God's care. It nonetheless felt right to do it again, for I continue to commit these my parents into the Hand of God.
[To Be Continued]
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