A Different Sort of Trip Report. (I Think?) Long

[John Cole]

I was invited by an old friend, Joan, to visit her in West Virginia, so I decided I needed a good break and went. Well, I guess I'll need to fill you in with some details. We haven't seen each other in twenty-one years, and I was a bit hesitant about going. We had been exchanging emails for the past few years, writing mostly about academic stuff since we're both professors and have also been involved in a few battles with our schools' administrations. Perhaps I should also mention that we were also a little more than simply "friends" from time to time although we never developed any sort of serious relationship.

A little more background. I had been married for the past eighteen years. My wife, Mary, died a little over a year ago, and my father passed away three weeks later. When I eventually wrote to Joan about their deaths, she urged me to visit, but we could never quite work out a time until a couple weeks ago. That, in general, is the background, and may explain my anxiousness (meaning here a combination of trepidation and excitement) about going. I also knew that I could never write about Mary in the same way that I could talk about her. Joan, I hoped, would be a good person to help me talk about some stuff that most of my friends find painful to hear.

Since I can't quite manage 800 miles of driving in one day anymore, I stayed one night with my father-in-law in PA, Columbia County to be exact. If I took reaching there as an omen, I would have turned around and went home. Columbia County had been hit hard by rain and floods the day before I arrived, but I decided to try to make it there anyway. Usually, it's about a five and a half to six hour drive. I pulled off 81 south and headed to Rt. 11 where I was turned around because the road had been closed. Fortunately, I knew a number of ways of getting there, so I went to option B--back to 81 to 80 West to Bloomsburg. But, the road into Stillwater (irony, anyone?) was closed, too. The third attempt, though, proved successful, and with detours, it took over eight hours and ninety more miles.

On to West Virginia. I love driving when there’s little to no traffic—a rare occurrence in the Mass/RI—and the route to WV, complete with its 70 mph speed limit, its winding highway, its scenery, and its near absence of traffic was a joy to drive. The almost 500 mile trip to Charleston seemed to go by quickly. Thanks to Mapquest, I found the place easily. Joan rents a house on a farm owned by George and Fran, and as I drove in, my path was blocked by a 150 lb. mastiff that proved to be quite friendly. Joan was outside waiting with her dogs—four Border Collies. Joan asked me how long I planned to stay, and believing like Ben Franklin that both fish and visitors begin to stink after three days, I said three days or so. “No,” she said, “You have to stay longer.” Three days turned into ten.

The farm is beautiful. Three horses, six llamas, and the assorted dogs and cats are the pets. When I asked George why they had llamas, he said, “Fran raises the llamas, and I raise Fran.” Okay, good enough for me. At night, a host of fireflies, and in the morning, a generous, enveloping foggy mist. I enjoyed the stillness and the sounds.

But, enough of that; after all, we hadn’t seen each other in 21 years. I have grown a bit thinner, Joan a bit heavier (of course, she barely weighed 100 pounds when I last saw her, so the extra twenty pounds looked fine on her), and we had both grown much more gray. (I’m sure, gentle reader, you are growing impatient, so I’ll summarize from here.) We talked easily and steadily, as if we had seen each other last week instead of years ago. We took a few trips, listened to some fine bluegrass music while sitting on hay bales at an arts and crafts fair, played with and walked the dogs, explored, ate, and drank. On one trip, we stopped at a bar, and on the way out, a woman tapped me on the arm and told me how much she liked my shirt. Then she looked me up and down and complimented me on the entire outfit. When Joan came up to me, the woman looked at both of us and said, “My! You make a cute couple.” (Did I say we are both in our fifties?) I’m not used to this sort of thing in New England.

Joan cooked for me, and I ate three meals a day for the first time in well over a year. I rarely drink, but I did indulge a bit—Maker’s Mark tasted really good at night. Joan listened attentively, patiently, and compassionately to me talk about Mary. She was happy I was there when her best friend in her department passed away from cancer during the week. We got along well, pretty much as we did before, and perhaps even a bit better. We’ve both changed, and our lives have turned out differently than we expected, and perhaps we’ve become better people for it.

I drove home feeling a bit better, but I also listened to Cole Porter’s sad song “Every Time We Say Goodbye” a few times. I thought of Joan and wondered if we would ever see each other again. And I thought of Mary and how much I miss her.