In the summer of 2001, at age 51, I went on a “Menopausal Odessey”, a seventy-day, 7000-mile road trip across the US and Canada.  It was a transitional quest, a cleansing. An attempt to run away from everything that reminded me of the past, my flaws, and all the mistakes I had made in my life. The journal I kept during that time was filled with whining and negative ruminating. The trip didn’t bring about a total purging, but it was a wonderful first step that moved my heart and mind toward some treasured insights and a sense of optimism. (Author’s note: You can read about each day of that adventure on this blog, post entries June 20, 2018-September 20, 2018.)

Twenty-three years later at age 74, I felt a need to run away again, not from myself this time but from the chaos of our world.  I had traveled far beyond myself during my early retirement, but the pandemic confined me.   My doubts about myself and my life are mainly confined to the first moments of waking up and disappearing with my first cups of coffee. Unfortunately, my caffeine ritual is followed by consuming news and delving into various views on YouTube. Because of this futile search for understanding, I was becoming frightened and losing my traveler spirit that had once been so strong and invincible.   I knew I was being manipulated by the media, who, with their clickbait headlines, were messing up my mind and keeping me caged.  I planned my escape, a thirty-day trip down south, not to whine and ruminate like 2001, but to renew.

I left on the morning of April 23 with my GPS and a new 2023 US road atlas. I headed to Binghamton and then proceeded west. I found a town that night with everything I loved: a great three-level used bookstore, a two-floor thrift and antique shop, a huge flea market, and an extremely cute coffee shop with art on the walls and live music. Owego was a dream with just the right amount of Victorian vibe. I found two books to help me with my quest to learn about the history of my North Country, one on the age of homespun and another that was a field guide to understanding old sites and their previous functions and workings. I was off to an extraordinary start.

Reenergized, I set my next goal. I had been a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright and was fascinated by his architectural masterpiece, Falling Water.  And so, I traversed new territory, western Pennsylvania, its hills and byways. I was rewarded. Wright incorporated the waterfalls in his design to provide the continuous sound of one of nature’s fountains and cool the interior of the structure.  The architect also succeeded in “pulling nature inside and pulling people outside toward nature”.

Before I left Mills Run and Falling Water, I realized I had passed Johnstown, the famous site of the great flood of 1889. I had read the book about it by David McCullough. For a moment, my insecurity returned, remembering the “waste not, want not” teachings of my parents, who lived during The Great Depression. Was going back an option? Yes, it was! This was my trip and I was free!

I backtracked and wasted gas, but I’m glad I did. The museum there was excellent. Its exhibits clearly told the story of the wealthy elites who built the poorly maintained dam for their South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club.  After days of rain, the dam broke, and water rushed down to the city of Johnstown killing over 2200 people. I admired the kindness and resilience of survivors who quickly organized to help those in need. Clara Barton arrived, too, and the Red Cross was formed in the middle of tragedy.

I didn’t want to go through the big cities, Scranton, Wilkes Barre, Harrisburg, Hagerstown.  Having taken many road trips in the US, I have come to resent our homogeneous culture. Far and wide, I’ve experienced the same corporate mass-produced food, packaged and stamped with bright-colored logos. McDonald’s, Starbucks, Arby’s. All our needs are offered by big companies spread across our country and capture most of our money. Lowes, Walmart, CVS, Best Buy.  They pop hungrily out of asphalt parking lots, where many people roam. Many creative Americans try to start something beyond this norm but struggle. Many times, small businesses can’t survive the power of the far-reaching presence of giants.

I cut through West Virginia and picked up 81 in Winchester. By chance, I found myself in the middle of The Apple Blossom Festival there. Craft fair, band, and booze. A lady came out of an elegant hotel and could have easily been the ambassador for the whole event. I had to laugh when I saw her, an unopened bottle of wine tucked under her arm and a handmade calico holster, which held a long-stemmed wine glass, slung across her body.

I decided to continue south through Virginia on 81. I had done this route many times when going to St. Augustine for the winter. I knew its colonial and revolutionary history well. It was always an important and overdone chapter in school demanding memorizing dates and battles.  Virginia seemed to have too much about the Founding Fathers, antebellum stuff, and the glory of the Civil War.

But I vowed to make the best of my time in Virginia and made one day of renewal. I did my laundry at the hotel, got my trimmed at a salon nearby, had lunch at a Waffle House, and found a wonderful old book about seafaring on the Great Lakes at a thrift store. But I was done with familiar things. I decided to head for Tennessee.

As soon as I crossed the border, I sensed something different. The pretentiousness of colonial Virginia melted into the world of homespun, settlers, and rugged individualism.

I had spent part of the pandemic researching the history of my North Country settled by people who, in many cases, came to my area across the wilderness like the settlers in Tennessee. This was context! I had a chance to immerse myself in the tangible culture of woodland folk. I was thrilled.

I was in The Great Smoky Mountains. I was a sociologist. A stranger in a strange land! I observed and gathered clues.

I had a nice chat with a woman who was having lunch with her grandkids. I told her about my wanderings and she suggested I go to Clingman’s Dome. I had no idea what it was all about, but I would never distrust a fellow grandma.

Trying to get there, I soon learned the meaning of the phrase “tourist trap” when I got stuck in Pigeon Forge, the hometown of Dolly Parton, and then Gatlinburg.  I circled and circled trying to escape.  I was a captive refusing to stop at the parking areas that were asking $15-$20 for a temporary piece of asphalt.

I stopped, most likely illegally, in the parking lot of a hotel, and finally got the information that I needed from the person at the desk. I made it to The Dome!

Driving through Tennessee to get back to North Carolina, I stumbled onto another festival centered around a local delicacy, ramps, a cross between an onion and garlic. I spent the whole day listening to genuine blue grass and watching cloggers. I was enchanted by it all.

Before my trip, the media had made us scared. My imagination ran wild. I feared that the Southerns who saw my NYS license plate would rob me or key my car.  But just the opposite happened. I warned people that I was a “Yankee” and they smiled and welcomed me. “The map is not the territory!!!” Americans are wonderful people. When we get in groups and let our deep emotions and fears take over, we become divided and tribal. I am going back to Tennessee next year for a month or so. I am going to explore and get to know the people. I want to understand their history to understand my North Country’s beginnings. All knowledge is connected: music, geography, politics, etc.  All of them bounce off each other in a fascinating story. I love collecting the clues and having “ah ha” moments when I find a little sliver of clarity that helps me understand the world and, therefore, my place in it.

Onward to Asheville, North Carolina for some urban hiking. 14,000 steps on the first day, 13,000 on the second day.

And then on to my goal. The Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway!

Mission accomplished. I started north again driving through West Virginia.

North through Pennsylvania. At one of my hotels in that state, I asked what the tankers in the parking lot were carrying. The disturbing answer was water for fracking.

In the spirit of freedom and doing what I damned well pleased, I went back to my favorite places in New York, even if it meant some crisscrossing and extra gas. First Barcelona in New York to walk along the shore and collect even more beach glass.

Next to Ithaca, to spend some time in my favorite bookstore on the Commons and then one last night 50 miles from home in Pulaski, NY, to keep my promise of 30 days.

At home on the wall near my coffee machine is a sign with two words, “choose joy”. The world since 2020 almost made me forget the meaning of those words, nearly made me oblivious to the fact that I’m responsible for the condition of my spirit. I find its beauty when I get out of myself and experience the world around me. There are still people out there who respond and welcome a smile and a bit of humor and a chance to be listened to and acknowledged. Sky, earth, and sunlight are arranged in a million different ways to paint lovely landscapes ready to be seen. A million stories have been told since the beginning of time about the hopes dreams and creative actions, big and small, of all the individuals who have contributed to the puzzle pieces that make up the world today. About two days before I arrived home, I found those two words again at a shop and took them with me.  I pray I never forget them again.

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