NORTHWARD BOUND

Leaving Florida

Three lanes in each direction prove inadequate for the traffic on I-75. “Rush hour,” I imagine as I

begin the journey north, but the congestion remains oppressively heavy the entire way to Brunswick,

Georgia. (Happily, the remaining three days prove to be much lighter.)

My motel room at La Quinta can be described as redolent with industrial strength disinfectant, the

aroma of eau de Clorox. After twenty minutes lying on the bed reading, my eyes begin to sting and I

try to imagine the effect on my respiratory system of eight hours breathing this air. Presumably the

housemaids use the same product on all the rooms, but I figured it might still be worth the effort to

complain, so I asked a woman at the desk to come take a whiff, and after confirming my opinion she

moved me to a somewhat less pungent room.

A Google search on my cellphone discloses a nearby Longhorn Steakhouse. Both desk clerks insist

that the restaurant hasn’t yet opened for business but, unwilling to distrust Google so easily, I

telephone the place, which was both open and thriving. Good to have a cellphone.

Exchanges

I’ve discovered a context for the pleasure I take in everyday exchanges—the clerk at the motel desk,

the cashier at McDonald’s, the attendant at the truck stop: we are all fellow travelers, a point that

becomes obvious when applied to people encountered at highway rest stops. I think of my planned

Camino pilgrimage, where the common destination imposes instant community among all the

travelers along the way. If the common life journey of those not on a pilgrimage may seem less

obvious, it’s no less fundamental. You choose how to treat your comrades, and I take pleasure in the

thought that a greeting or a kind word may to some degree lighten their load or improve their journey.

At one rest stop a man approaches me, asking if I can help a vet, with wife and children in the car,

who has run out of money needed for gas. I give him $10. Later I reflect that he probably isn’t a vet

and probably doesn’t have a wife and kids. But you tend to respond differently to such an appeal at a

highway rest stop as opposed to, say, an urban street corner. May it’s just a good scam. Who knows?

But I do know that each time you smile, offer a greeting, hold a door, share, take turns—you’re

reinforcing in another person the belief that we are one, and that the self-centered are the exception,

not the rule.

Jane Austen

Last night I began reading The Annotated Persuasion, annotated and edited by David M. Shapard, the

fourth Austen novel that I have read in this format. Once again I experienced the comfortable

sensation of being in the presence of an old friend—both Austen’s remarkable prose and Shapard’s

helpful commentary that makes the life of an Austen heroine reassuringly familiar. I look forward to a

summer of reading and piano playing.

Playlists

I once read a science fiction story about a space flight in which the pilot enjoyed the company of a

younger companion in a separate compartment. In reality, it was deemed too expensive to provide

accommodations for two actual people. Instead, the pilot’s memory before the age of twelve had been

severed and preserved, so that his conversations were actually taking place with an earlier version of

himself, a companion with whom he got along famously well.

I think of this story as I listen to a playlist that I compiled several months before this trip, long enough

to have forgotten the individual entries. Instead, one song after another fills me with warm thoughts

toward the soul who knew me well enough to prepare a collection of favorite music.

Mac Anderson Park

What’s there to do in Statesville, North Carolina? Google supplies the answer, a nearby park, with a

trail winding through it.

The stroll in North Carolina and the drive through Virginia make me realize how much I miss seasons,

rolling hills, grass, arboreal diversity, and even robins. The beauty of this springtime in the South

makes Florida, however paradisiacal, feel somehow artificial, a perfect Disneyfied existence. (Of

course, when I got home to Ontario rain, I immediately felt homesick for Florida.)

Waynesburg University

Throughout most of my life, being on a college campus in springtime has produced sometimes

overwhelming feelings of sadness. At Waynesburg University (formerly Waynesburg College) I

experienced only a mild bittersweet sensation. I discreetly autographed the only one of my books in

the campus library, performed Debussy for a human resources major on the chapel Steinway (alas, no

pipe organ), took advantage of the pictorial possibilities of flowering shrubs against brick buildings,

and bade the university (formerly college) a fond farewell.

Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania farmers presumably have as their primary concern the profitable operation of their

businesses. It seems unlikely that they give much—or any—thought to the aesthetic effect of their

homesteads on passing motorists. Yet these Pennsylvania farms contribute to a landscape that brings

considerable pleasure to this traveler.

Lagoon City

Although the calendar insists that we’re more than a month into spring, and some foolhardy forsythia

and daffodils have ventured forth, as I do my morning three-mile walk dressed in jacket, cap, scarf

and gloves, I say it’s still winter 1537 miles from the Sunshine State.

[Wall-size poster behind the desk at the Hampton Inn Waynesburg]