America, Part 2

Hudson, Ohio

Brunch with Valerie and family complete, we were off to visit my cousin Kim. Four more hours on the road, the only thing of interest being watching bikers put on and take off their helmets at State crossings, depending on which States dictated that riders had to wear them. Why wouldn’t you want to wear a helmet? Is risking brain injury a thing there? Didn’t Gary Bussey impress the need to protect your head? Apparently not. Apparently, it’s better to taste freedom and feel the wind in your hair than to be a gibbering idiot after a brain injury.

Four hours later, we pulled into Hudson, Ohio, amid wide boulevards and stately elms and a noticeable lack of garish corporate street advertisements and neon. Only one existed, a decidedly ‘50s mom and pop burger joint drive-in, grandfathered in before the city could enact a bylaw prohibiting eye pollution. Even McDonalds blended into the ambiance.

We were met at the drive as we pulled in, thanks to Aunt Lorraine’s timely text.

Hugs, kisses, the grand tour.

No sooner had we pulled in and unloaded our luggage, we were urged to haste.

Where are we going? I asked.

Mentor Amphitheatre

We’re going to a concert, Kim said. What sort of concert? The Cleveland Symphony Orchestra was performing Oklahoma at the Mentor Amphitheatre. Kim’s friend arrived. We were shepherded into Kim’s van and within the half hour we were finding a spot on that grassy knoll, sizable picnic basket in hand. Kim unloaded the spread. Wine. Beer. Hot food. Cold foot. Salads, potato and macaroni. Fruit and cut veggies and dip. Desserts. It was like being served from the Tardis. There seemed no end to it. Throughout the feed, the Orchestra played live to the film Oklahoma, the musical soundtrack digitally removed, the dialogue intact.

The next day, we were treated to “A Taste of Hudson,” where participating restaurants of the area sold prepared tapas on the manicured lawn of the town square, each selection a dollar. Square white tents set in neat rows, washing the now packed space in reflected light, the heat adrift on a pleasant breeze. Families and friends milled about, crossing paths, darting here and there to seek their stomach’s content. We purchased prepaid debit cards, each loaded with twenty bucks, and all we had to do was stroll from tent to tent, picking out what struck our fancy, swiping the card, and nibble on what each business had to offer. I took the opportunity to try what I didn’t have ready access to back home. Indian, Tai, Arabic, you name it. If I couldn’t get it, I wanted to try it.

Our bellies full, our cards depleted, I wandered off to check out the rows of classic cars arrayed just off the square. Unlike in Timmins where ‘70s muscle cars rule the roost, all eras of classic cars sat in neat gathered decades. There were a few from the ‘70s, more from the ‘60s, even more from the ‘50s and ‘40s. There were fewer from the ‘30s, ostensibly rare, probably due to there being fewer cars then. I was drawn to those and to those from the ‘20s, coupes and sedans and perfectly preserved model A’s and T’s, their invariably black shells gleaming in the dappled shade. Supple leathers glowed, chrome flashed. They all smelled of rubber and leather. Proud parents stood by, certificates of authenticity displayed in their windshields.

Afterwards, Kim invited another friend to dinner. He was a pro football player in days past and looked it. Tall, broad, muscled still. He told tales of his glory days, full of past indulgences and steroids and anger, and how coaches and trainers would rile them up prior to a game, to whip them into a killing frenzy.

He said, he found himself slipping into a seething rage after a practice one day. It rose up for no good reason. It just rose. He’d been standing in front of the sink, before the mirror, and began to get mad. Why? He didn’t know. He just did. He got mad and grew madder by the moment. He gripped the sink with both hands and applied all his strength to it, his muscles tense and taut. He strained against the basin and ripped it off the wall. Water sprayed everywhere. He spoke like such things were a common occurrence in professional football.

Why was he invited? He too was a writer, and a published one, at that, albeit by a small independent press, invited to encourage me about pursuing my writing “career,” and on how to seek out publishers. How and why did an ex-football player become a writer? For the same reason why and how he became a knitter, to ease and tame the rage he’d been encouraged to sow by the sport he’d loved and pursued.
The next day was a lazy day. We had a full breakfast, we chatted. Mandy, Kim’s daughter, propped herself up between a chair and the countertop and swung back and forth like a swing throughout. She was active, filled to the brim with soccer and speed. Too much sitting set her on edge.

Kim spoke about her job and how taxing it was. She taught autistic children, a task so intense that when her one-on-one tutelages were complete, she was too exhausted to do much more than veg in front of the TV, oblivious within moments of turning off the tube off what she’d been watching. She spoke about her children, their soccer prospects, their education, and their further prospects afterwards. She spoke about her parents, our family, Cochrane, memories, and Rick, her husband, and how they met. She saw that he had a tie draped over his rear-view mirror, and that she preferred the prospect of a man who actually had need of a tie, regardless the event, yet one relaxed enough that a tie could be so haphazardly draped so over the rear-view mirror of his car. Rick and I kicked back at the pool, Rick training their new dog, each of us feeling out the other to see if we liked each other, I suppose. I liked him. I hope he liked me; I must have seemed a little unfocussed and maybe a little disgruntled to him, he being far more successful in his chosen profession than I was in mine.

We went back downtown, Bev looked in clothing boutiques, I browsed books at an independent bookseller.

We woke to the need to return my Aunt Lorraine to Indiana and to be on our way.

We had a long haul ahead of us. Fourteen hours for me until North Bay, four for Bev until home.

I was hell bent to be at it.