America

My family is not particularly close; or maybe it’s that I’m not particularly close to my family. Either way, I don’t see them much. My fault, their fault, nobody’s fault. Shit happens. We once lived close, most of us, the bulk of my family in Cochrane, with my family in Timmins. A few were further afield: my Uncle Derek in London, the Tishlers in Detroit. So, it’s no surprise that I only saw the Tishlers a few times a year. No matter, we were all of us close then, what with those frequent gatherings.

Even so, I was one of the youngest of my clan (only Robbie Tisher was younger than me), so I doubt that any of my cousins had much interest in me. And I was only four when we moved away, and they didn’t see me much after that, only on holidays and a few times every summer. As the years passed, we travelled to Cochrane less and less, and I saw my uncles and aunt and cousins fewer and fewer times, until I saw them no times at all, except at weddings and funerals. Except for Keith; Keith and I kept bumping into each other over the years.

Today’s technology can change that. Nowadays, everyone can see everyone else daily if they choose to do so

One day, my Aunt Lorraine asked me if I’d like to visit her in Indiana. I’d never been to Indiana. I’d barely ever been in the United States, except for those few times I’d been to ball games in Detroit or lingered in an airport for a few hours awaiting connections to points further afield.

What was there to do in Indiana, I wondered? I honestly didn’t know. It was in the mid-west, I knew that much, but I really didn’t know what that meant. Was it on the Great Plains? I scratched my head. No matter. It had been years, if not a decade, since I’d seen her or my American cousins, so I asked Bev if she’d like to go. She asked me if I did. Surprisingly, I did, regardless whether accepting the invitation precluded our travelling overseas that year. I accepted. We’d make a road trip of it.

And what a road trip it was. Bev and I split the driving: she drove the first four hours to North Bay and I drove the remaining distance, all ten hours of it.

We lingered in North Bay that first day, strolling downtown, browsing shops, having dinner at the Moose’s Cookhouse, then checking out the Northgate Mall. We slept. We got up early. We hit the road.
We crossed the border at Sarnia on the Tishler’s advice. Less traffic. Quicker passing customs. It should have been quicker. Traffic was moving along nicely, the cars inching along at a fairly rapid pace. Until the car before us pulled up to the customs agent. At that exact moment, the agents changed shift, and the agent who replaced the one in our lane decided there was something amiss or suspicious about the two young men ahead of us and got them to empty their car, pulling apart their luggage. You’d think that there would be a side inspection lane for that.

After watching customs rifle through their car and frisk the young men, we even declared the prepackaged bag of chips we were snacking on. The customs agent waved us through without a second glance.

The first thing we noticed upon crossing the border was that all the signs were in America Imperial. Distances were noted as 1½ miles, speed at 55 mph. Tim Hortons had disappeared mere meters from the border. There were McDonalds everywhere, their arches thrust up on high pillars, declaring their presence and position to passersby well in advance. And fast food was cheaper by far than back home. No wonder Americans are for the most part heftier than their Canadian counterparts. Junk food was so cheap!

We arrived in Leo after a marathon session of driving. I was exhausted, my mind vacant from staring at the asphalt track that stretched out before me for far too many hours at a stretch.

My aunt fed us, we chatted for a bit, we got the grand tour of the house, and we took the picture my mother wanted: Lorraine in front of her house. I took more than that; I took pictures of the views up and down the street, and of the lake across the road, too.

We watched a little TV while we chatted. I was surprised to see how many religious channels there were, each of them reminding me of the televangelists that graced our Sunday airways for as long as I could remember. Lorraine informed us that we’d be going to church in Fort Wayne with her and Valarie and family before brunch.

Church? I asked.

Lorraine explained that she’d made a promise to God while her granddaughter had been deathly ill and not expected to recover. If you heal her, she prayed, I’ll go to church. Miraculously, her granddaughter recovered.

Then she said that we’d be going to Ohio after brunch to visit my cousin Kim.

So, we were going to church. It was at a Blackhawk ministry. I’d never heard of the Blackhawk ministry, And I’d never seen such an exterior of a church. Or such an interior. There were no pews. There was no altar. There was a broad concave arc of plush benches that reminded me more of Vegas than of church. There was a Hammond organ on stage. There was a grand piano. There was a full R&B ensemble. The piano player wore Ray Bans and swayed like Ray Charles while he played. There were Halleluiahs. People rushed their children down to the stage to dance. And the sermon was telecast by the coach of the Indiana Colts. I leaned over to Bev and whispered, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas, anymore.”

We weren’t.

We were in Indiana.

I know. That’s very irreverent of me. I apologise.

We brunched with Valarie and family, afterwards. All her children were in attendance, likely because she told them they had to attend.

This may be the last time you’ll ever have an opportunity to meet your cousin from Northern Ontario, or some such. They were well behaved. They were all polite. They were all terribly disinterested. Who could blame them?

Valerie caught us up. Her husband was an exec with GM. Jim was interested in my Impala, having never driven one. His was a Buick Regal, or some such. I’ve known Jim since ’76, when he came up north to Cochrane to meet the family, or more specifically, to be introduced to Gramma. I liked him them; I like him still. But I don’t know him. I don’t know any of them, really. The children were attending this school or that, doing this and that. Sports. Arts. Charities. She taught deaf children to speak, how to enunciate. How to sign. She was terrible busy. I was floored. That was amazing. I cannot say how visibly impressed I was.

Brunch complete, they scattered to the wind.

And so did we.

I had another four hours to drive to Ohio. Hudson, here we come.