I say I don’t go inland. But sometimes I do. I still had
twenty minutes to go. My usual stop for gas and facilities in New Hampshire on
the way to Maine had been shortened by the closing of the facilities due to
Covid-19 guidelines. I soldiered on confident I could make it without stopping.
No dice.
Covid.
Fucking Covid.
The turn off Route 26 to the Poland Spring Campground gave just enough room to get the truck off the road and enough darkness to hide me from anyone passing by. I got out of the truck and picked a tree. I sighed a breath of relief as disaster caused by the extra-large coffee, I had bought leaving Boston was averted.
Standing in the pines I sensed the Maine in my DNA and remarked quietly to myself that I most likely still remember every “emergency pull-off” in Oxford, Androscoggin and Cumberland counties. In the cab of the truck Boz Scaggs was just breaking into “Lido Shuffle.” I finished my business as Boz declared “One for the road…” and thought about that for a second. I’ll be honest, I thought twice about it. Both times it seemed like a good idea so I grabbed an ice cold can out of the cooler in the back of the truck.
Before I get flamed by the comment police, let me state that I do not condone, endorse or encourage drinking while driving. It’s poor judgement and I made a poor choice. But I’m human. And I rationalized with the Universe that my judgement may have atrophied a bit after enduring the cloud of leaf smoke (you know what I mean) generously provided by my fellow rush hour drivers on 93 through Boston and up Route 1.
Choice made, I took a spin around the truck to make sure there were no lights out and got back in as Boz was finishing his set. I replaced him with the boys from Van Halen, turned them up to 28 and got back on the road. I took the first sip of the beer and toasted Eddie and his guitar. Then I toasted the lore of the road soda and settled back in my seat and memories from long ago as I drove into my past.
I was making this trip to help my dad put nine cords of firewood in the basement for the winter. Despite what I might have said and felt about it back then, splitting and stacking firewood on the farm is one of my fond memories of growing up. Mixed in with those memories are times riding in dad’s truck after a day on a jobsite, hauling hay, moving cattle or those trips along the back roads in the woods when I “needed a talking to” or the sacred “attitude adjustment.” Good day or bad day, these were times that I treasured because it was just me and my dad. And there might have been a road soda involved.
“Running with The Devil” flooded the cab as I took another sip. That was one of my “Fight Songs” way back when and my mind returned to one of those back-road drives in the woods. I don’t recall what cataclysmic event triggered the ride into the woods, most likely it had to due with my general lack of ambition when it came to school, work or anything I felt I was being forced to do. I do remember the outcome because it was one of those life changing moments. The lecture, like most, was short. I don’t remember the beginning or the middle, but I remember the finale because dad had tears in his eyes and I rarely saw him cry.
“You’ll never be smarter than everyone else. Your only chance is to work harder and longer than everyone and make up the difference by being stronger.”
And then silence. That was it. My first reaction was to be pissed at him. Then I was pissed at myself because I knew I had let him down. But it didn’t take long, after staring into the passenger side mirror the rest of the way home, for me to understand what he was trying to tell me. It sounded negative when I first heard it, but it was the best piece of advice I’ve ever been given. Because I was his son, and he knew me. It changed me. Not completely and not all at once but things changed. I took those words to heart and they became my foundation. They propelled me through the rest of high school, through college and along my twisted career path.
I took another sip and toasted the old man.
I turned off Route 26 towards Oxford Village and wandered down memory lane again. A few years after that pivotal ride in the woods we were riding in dad’s truck again, this time after pouring concrete all day at a foundation job at Robinson’s Mill. I just happened to be driving past the mill at that moment and stopped for a few minutes to reflect. Dad had given me a lot of responsibility on that job and I had worked my ass off to bring it in right and under schedule. While I finished floating the top of the foundation, he had gone next door to Steve & Deb’s General Store and had come back holding a paper bag. When I got in the truck, he handed me a beer and said, “You earned this.” We headed for home and he commended me on the job I had done laying the job out, setting panels and coordinating all the work with the excavator. And then he gave me a $2.00 per hour raise.
I drank that beer and stared at myself in the passenger side
mirror again. And then I thanked him, not so much for the raise but for those
words years earlier.
I cranked the boys singing “Humans Being” back up to 28 and drove the few remaining miles of my journey to my sister’s house. I sat in the driveway and replayed it while I finished (for those keeping score) the last half of my beer, grateful for the lore of the road soda and all that goes with it.
Yeah, this isn’t about fishing or being on the water. It isn’t about drinking and driving, loud music or the relationship between me and my dad. It’s about us. It’s about humans being. It’s about working hard and being strong to live a little better. For each other.
And Covid.
Fucking Covid.
I’ll have another Corona, please.
Thompson Lake, ME
30 October 2020
