Our trip home, which should take only three days of dedicated driving, is a planned five-day excursion. Originally we thought it would be longer, but a doctor’s appointment demands that we be in Wimberley by Wednesday morning.

From New York to Pennsylvania

Leaving the bucolic beauty of the Hudson River Valley behind, we stick to the first day’s original plan, making our way down New York’s wide and busy freeway, crossing the tip of New Jersey, finally nosing our trusty convertible onto Pennsylvania’s scenic Highway 6. We are finally back on the country roads I love, twisting, dipping, winding, curling through a tunnel of tall green trees which mostly totally ignore the fact that autumn is officially here.

When our stomachs start to growl—we left Woodstock without breakfast—we begin looking for a likely place for lunch. There aren’t many. In a nameless undistinguished town, we pull into a small parking lot that contains a smaller restaurant called MUGGS. There are a few cars, which is a good sign, and they are open, which is an even better sign. The restaurant is plain Jane, with one young woman acting as hostess, waitress, and cashier for the entire establishment. She may cook too; one never knows. The menu goes on forever. I mean forever. I settle for a no-frills bacon sandwich (piled high), and Michael orders a meatloaf sandwich with grilled onions. The food is simple and tasty and good.

Highway 6 curls on. We stop at a scenic overlook on the way, where the views of the river and the valley are so lovely and so inviting I want to fall into it.

Wellsboro, PA

At 4 pm, we pull into Wellsboro and the Penn-Wells Lodge. A busy place. I would say serendipity brought us here, but the serendipitous moment came in the shape of Michael, who emailed me info on a possible route home, pointing me to this town, and the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania, which is ten miles away.  The split earth, the canyon, the trails, the waterfalls are not in our future, but the town is charming, and just being here will have to do.

After a restorative nap, we hit the streets heading for a restaurant with the unlikely name of The Timeless Destination. Because it is Friday, I am worried that there will be no room at the inn, but fortunately, there is a far table just waiting for us. I am happy to note that this is a restaurant frequented by locals where the waitress tells her customers, “See you next Friday.”

Small-town America

I think I love Wellsboro. It is the stereotypical small-town America of my dreams. A place where I would willingly hang my hat. The downtown is alive. People mill about everywhere. There is a viable theater. A candy shop. Several restaurants. A charming old hotel. Clothing stores. Shoe stores. Antique stores. Banks. Businesses. The vibe is a melding of San Miguel de Allende in Mexico and Oviedo in Spain. Alive. Joyous.

I relish the night and the stroll through the town. Michael detours into the candy shop and walks to the back, purchasing a large cup of ice cream. Salted caramel. “It’s better than the garlic ice cream in Saugerties,” he tells me. I think he has been trying to redeem the ice cream experience since that day. The room in the Penn Wells Lodge is spacious. The beds are heaven. Exhausted, I fall asleep without the need to read.

Fog on Highway 6

We wake early, have breakfast at the lodge, and continue down Highway 6.  We pass by an old, time-worn wooden church, where paint cracks and peels and ivy crawls up the front door, barring the entrance, letting me know it is more than timeworn—it is abandoned. The cemetery peeking through the tall grasses surrounding it—with its tilted headstones kissed by the curling fog—begs us to stop and take a picture. Michael didn’t notice the vignette, and speeds down the road, too fast to hear me say, “Ohhhhhh. Look,” and then when he understands my unspoken request to stop, I say there is no need to turn back. Damn. Now, why did I say that? I want to paint that scene. Can I do it from memory?

The morning fog mutes the fall colors that have arrived in this part of the state and lures us down unnamed roads, where Michael stops for pictures and then says, “I think werewolves live here,” I agree, it is spooky, but I also am reminded of a portion of a poem by Robert Frost.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  

 But I have promises to keep,  

  And miles to go before I sleep,  

And miles to go before I sleep.

We continue on our appointed path. Small towns. Sleepy towns. Fall festivals. Huge churches. Charming houses. This is what a road trip should be—not six wide lanes, piercing the land, racing straight ahead. I know that is our future, and I am saddened at our need to meet a deadline and be home sometime Tuesday. My fault.

Ribbons of Gray

On the Interstate, the miles slide past. We sleep in Springfield, Ohio, and again in Springfield, Missouri. Turning south, we detour toward the Talimena Scenic Drive in Arkansas, hoping for fall color one last time before slipping across the Texas border. It eludes us, but the drive is peaceful; it curls and dips and twists. I’m happy again. Crossing into Oklahoma, we find a hotel in Broken Bow and eat Mexican food for the first time in two months. The food is tasty but not my beloved Tex-Mex. I need to be in San Antonio for that—or at Garcia’s in San Marcos.

Sprinting down I 35, I barely notice the flatness of the land or the lack of trees, or the ribbon of straight gray. We are too busy listening to a book on tape I rented from Cracker Barrel—a Jack Reacher novel. The author loves words and wants you to live each moment. Feel the pain. The boredom. The emptiness. The loneliness. But he pulls you on, deeper into the story—the mystery.

Home

We cross RR 12, entering Woodcreek, driving by the homes of friends and wonderful old gnarled oak trees, much shorter than I remember.  I always thought they were tall. We pull into our driveway, enter the garage, and unload the car.

I stand in my kitchen (I love my kitchen. I missed my kitchen. My bright cheerful kitchen.) looking at my phone. I text…

Home again home again jiggity jig…

On the counter my phone dings. A friend texts back, asking if I bought a fat pig.

Memories from the road…

A flat ribbon of gray somewhere between here and there.

Memories

It is Homecoming in Springfield, Ohio when we stop for the night.  All of the restaurants are filled with young girls in bright fluffy dresses and their eager dates. Rather than wait an hour for dinner, we head eleven minutes down the road seeking out a KFC; it’s been years, and Michael has a hankering for fried chicken. The fast-food restaurant is old and tired and a bit depressing—their customers older, tireder and as wide as they are tall—but the chicken is still good.

On the long gray ribbons of asphalt, fast food chains are just about our only option for lunch. McDonald’s is bright and cheerful and clean and a much happier place than the KFC of yesterday. McDonald’s has been a friendly reminder of home at train stations in Pisa and Florence, close to Saint Peter’s in Rome, and tucked in small corners in Oviedo and Barcelona. We didn’t even dream of eating at one in Paris, even though it was there calling to us, silently saying home…home…home.