Along The Highway

Despite my having read it so many times, and known of it through countless conversations, I have made a remarkable personal discovery that much of America, with its kaleidoscope of humanity, is to be found on its highways.

On a trip west, and heading through the Berkshires with their soft rolling hills, I gave a lift to two young girls. Upon stopping, the older-looking one opened the door and said, "New York?"

 "City or State?" I countered. She hesitated, looked back at her younger companion, and a secret sign passed between them.

"Are you going to New York City?" the younger one asked, standing back on the grass verge.

"No," I replied, "but I can take you part way, and you can try to get a lift to New York City from there."

Again the hidden signals passed between them. The younger girl gave a slight nod, and in they climbed. 

We sat in silence, while my attempts at conversation were suspiciously rebuffed. It wasn't until I switched on the radio and a rock star sang his latest money maker that they came to life.

I wondered about these two young girls. At first, I put them at about 16 or 17 years of age, two girls off to see the city. But a closer look told me that they were probably several years younger. I tried not to dwell too much on why they were out here on Interstate 90, miles from the nearest town.

In between their humming of the tune, I pushed in what I hoped were innocent questions about their travel. Where had they come from? Where were they going? I managed to make it light enough to add a joke about running away from home.

Again, the silence and the secret signals. I did not push further. I managed to elicit from them that they were traveling from Hartford to "their grandfather's house in Bridgeport." That would be comparable to traveling from London to Paris via Rio de Janeiro. Again, I resisted the desire to find a reason for this, and I suppose I though of the Samaritan, who helped but did not inquire.

The girls were painted in the colors of the age. Deep eye shadow and varnished finger and toe nails. They wore purples and puce, violets and green. Their natural hair color could only be guessed at. Underneath it all were two girls who should have been claiming their right to play baseball with the boys, instead of being here on this lonely highway. I could only wonder at why they were on the lam like this and if someone was worrying about them. I decided that all I would do was to remember their description, and to note where I had dropped them off.

I finally pointed them in the direction of New York City and left them. My heart went with them. I saw my own two girls in their faces. God forbid that they should ever find themselves in such a situation — and God ensure that someone would help them. Today, I might have second thoughts about stopping.

Once cleared of Albany, the New York farmland spread out, and the low clouds that had been with me since Boston opened up and the rain beat against the windshield.

Two figures huddled in the pelting rain, making a tent of their two coats. I pulled over, honking to them.

One figure ran up, a young, bearded man about 25. Behind him, a smaller figure hopped and dragged a foot.

"Hi," the young man said. "Her buckle has broken on her sandal." But he made made no attempt to run back and assist the small, round girl who came puffing up.

"My buckle broke," she said in a voice that rose above the rain.

"I already told him," the man said. She stared at him, as though he had robbed her of her moment in the limelight.

"Why don't you hop in out of the rain?" I beckoned them in, she in the middle and he, propping himself against the far door. This time I did not initiate any conversation. I had a feeling that I would not have to, and I was right. He called me "Sir," and she called me "Mister."

"How far ya going, mister?" she asked. I told them that I would go all the way to Buffalo on the Thruway.

"We're going to Elmira. You going there, mister?"

"Maybe he's not going to Elmira,"the man said, staring out the window, then turning to me, "Are you?"

I said, "No," but that they were welcome to accompany me as far as the nearest turnoff point to Elmira.

Both wet and exhausted, he soon feel asleep, but she poked him awake telling him that he had fallen asleep. He smiled, put his arm around her, and nodded off again. Soon, she fell asleep, and although this didn't fulfill my reason for picking them up—I wanted company—it was comforting to have them there.

They seemed "country people," not used to city ways or manners; had I been king or farmer, it would have made no difference to them. In contrast to their light abrasiveness toward each other, they slept as though all their worlds was wrapped up in each other. [this is a bit awkward, but wonderful, and I couldn't come up with better]

Miles later, I reached across and nudged his shoulder. He snapped up his head.

"The next town is your best spot for a lift to Elmira," I told him.

"Thank you sir," he said, "We really appreciate this."

Then she awoke and said, "Where are we, mister?"

He told her, "We get off soon."

When I looked for the last time in the rear view mirror I saw them holding their coats over their heads. It suddenly occurred to me that they could have been the parents of those two young girls.

Normally these encounters would have been adventure enough for one trip. But farther on, through the clear gap left by the sweep of the wiper, another sodden hiker waved his thumb at the passing traffic. As I stopped, a dark complexioned man looked in the window. He said, "Excuse me, please, ver' goot. I go to Boofalo. OK?"

I said "OK," and he dripped into the car.

"Ver' goot. I come from Algeria. I go to Boofalo. Ver' goot."

"Fine," I told him.

"Ver' goot. Ver goot. Excuse me, pliz," he replied.

He wore heavy corduroy trousers, a thick sweater, and a fur-hooded parka. It was almost 90 degrees, very humid, and he was not even perspiring. I asked him if he wanted to take off his parka.

"Excuse me, pliz, ver' goot. I like America. Is goot," he said.

I had the feeling that if I told him Martians were kidnapping Chicago, he would have said, "Ver' goot."

Eventually he did take off his parka and sweater. Perhaps he was wearing his entire wardrobe. His English was about as good as my Algerian. I tried speaking French. It only made matters worse. Each time I said something in French, he asked me to tell him what it was in English.

The countryside south of the Adirondacks is rolling and sliced with tiny valleys, settled with small towns created from the river traffic which served the mills. We caught each other looking at the green slopes of the farmed fields, and I said, "Very pretty."

"Ver' goot," he said, "is nice. America is nice. Many trees, is ver' goot to have many trees. What is 'pretty'?"

"Pretty is beautiful," I said. "Only smaller." I pinched my index finger and thumb to indicate size.

I dropped him off  amid the industrial landscape of "Boofalo." We exchanged gifts. I swapped a cap of mine he had admired that said "Lake Placid, Winter Olympics, 1980" for a drink of orange juice.

"Thank you," he said, his charcoal eyes glowing. We shook hands and parted as we might have done had we met in the desert.

I felt better for having met them all. It would have been easy to simply pass them by. On a subway train or an elevator, I might not have given them a second thought. But special circumstances breed special perceptions. Ancient travelers often joined caravans for mutual protection; somehow, I felt part of a very historic tradition.

Although each of my hitchhikers was entirely different in background, character and outlook, they all had a wanderlust that impelled them to travel the highway. None of them showed any anxiety about arrival at their destination. On the contrary, I had the feeling that it was the traveling itself that was important.

As a personal experience, I found I had to readjust. Much of my life has centered around "home and hearth"— a sense of permanence that belonged inside four walls. I found myself feeling that perhaps the nomadic instinct is as much a part of human feeling for the world, as is putting down roots.

©  Roy H. Barnacle  2014

Going Back and Going Home

Nostalgia. The word is a formation of a Greek compound, consisting of nóstos, "returning home" -- a Homeric word -- and  álgos, "pain" or "ache."  I suffered from it for years, not from any pain or ache, but from a feeling of appreciation for the past or something related to the past, often in an idealized form.

A few years back, I re-visited the small Welsh village where I was sent as a World War II evacuee.  At the age of three, I could hardly have known of the events happening in Europe that woud change the world forever. Like most children, I trusted my parents to always do the right thing. My mother said I needed to leave London "to be safe."   Safety would be found in a small South Wales town by the name of Llantrisant, and translates as The Parish of the Three Saints.  (They being St.Illtyd, St. Gwynno and St. Dyfodwg.  Pronounciation is unavailable by this Cockney kid.)

. My memories of that small community were of a happy time, far away from the London Blitz. The house of Mrs. Adams, with whom I was billeted, was still there, as was the park with its trim gardens and smooth, bowling green . The small chapel still stood, although it had long ago lost its congregation. The winding road to the school at the top of the hill and the sweet shop where a penny bought a life-supply of candy were still in place.

But there were changes. It would be arrogant of me to think that none were made.  A huge recreation center had been built in the middle of the pristine landscape of the park. A busy rotary whirled in place of the quiet intersection by James' grocery store, and there was a new tire factory on the outskirts of the town. These intrusive occupants pushed my happy memories aside. I asked one long-time resident if much had changed for him over the last 50 or 60 years.

"Nothing too much," he replied in that wonderful Welsh lilt that I had adopted during my childhood stay. He had slowly accepted the changes, adjusted to them, and fitted them neatly into his daily routines.

We talked about the changes. He said that to him, and to others who lived in this village, the qualities and values that made up this town were still there. As we talked, I realized that our lives are constantly accommodating change. We may protest modern change and facilitation , but for the sake of their convenience and our comforts we accept much in the "name of progress" and the advancement of what we term "civilization."

It took a conversation between me and one of my daughters, then 10 years old, as I drove her to yet another soccer match on a Saturday, to bring home how much life has changed between my childhood and hers, indeed of all my four children. Technology, innovation, communication, and changing social customs have all contributed to dramatic changes in the way we live and interact with each other.

I grumbled about my Saturdays not being my own anymore. So Sarah asked, "Daddy, what did you do on a Saturday when you were a little boy?" It seemed as though my answer had been waiting with eager expectancy for that question for years. It leapt from my lips with an eloquence that surprised us both.

                "Ah yes," I replied. "My Saturdays. I would get my map of the London Home Counties and pore over it for an hour. Then, I would pick some interesting sounding name, circle it, and map out the route. Out would come my bicycle, and I would set off on my planned journey. Sometimes the trip was more than a hundred miles. Sometimes it would be to visit family or friend."

Sarah thought for a moment: "Your Mom let you go?" she said with a slight note of incredulity in her voice.         "Yes, of course."

                "Wasn't she afraid?" exclaimed my daughter.

                "Of what?" I answered. "There was no traffic. The streets were safe. The towns and villages that I passed through always had a small cafe where I could buy something to eat or drink."

                "But what about, you know, those guys?"

Yes, I knew. I knew she was referring to the headlines which shout that it is not safe for children to be out on the streets, or, for that matter, at home alone, that they cannot be left in cars or strollers outside a store, that leaving  children with others invites risk, and that our young offspring are marketable items, or socially manipulative objects, or future earners.

I knew that we were at a juncture where I could easily frighten my daughter, create a block of cynicism in her, or produce a hundred other negative tones in her young mind. We tread a fine line while keeping keeping our children informed of the world around them, yet keeping them innocent and blameless of the world's failings and frailties. I realized with a mixture of melancholy and hope that the climates of my childhood and my children's were a world apart. I also realized that this difference, this awkward dissimilarity of our childhoods, would not, need not stand in the way of giving them that sense of adventure, inquisitiveness, and wonder that I enjoyed in that far away Welsh village.

As an evacuee, I was shielded and protected from the ravages and horrors of Hitler's terror. What I knew about those dark days, I read years afterwards. No one in that village made it a point to tell me what I was protected from. I just was and didn't have to know from what.

Today's children cannot avoid instantly learning about the weakness of their president, of the injustices in our courts, of the revulsion of demented minds, the nature of extremes, or the brutality of today's terrorism. It is this instantaneousness that gives little time to make an honest evaluation of events and consequences in the world.

Is our task now, not so much to make these  things invisible, but to educate our children how to combat them, overcome them, or heal them? My involvement in my children's growth and progress is a hundred times more than my own parents' input in my childhood. My father left me nothing but the world to make my way in. It was a world of safe streets, kind and decent people, of  unclogged streets, respect for authority, and of TV-free living rooms. Perhaps my parents did not need to spend a great deal of time looking for negative aspects in my life or their own. The qualities they instilled would serve me well in a world that was largely congruous and amicable.

Today, I know that caring for my children's safety I cannot let them wander too far from home without some protection from the world. But I can also tell them there is much to appreciate and value. They may have to be driven to their soccer matches in lieu of walking or cycling as I did, but those moments traveling in the car are filled with open, honest and fun-filled conversations. We fill our journey with our voices in song, taking great advantage of the moments together.

Lacking a safe subway system today, I may have to take my son into town to see the sights of the city, where I once bicycled or walked; but it affords me an opportunity to share the journey with him and to contribute my experiences to the moments we share. Perhaps, just perhaps, I watched my children more than my own parents ever did, but there is a meshing of our minds that was never there when I set out on my own early explorations.

I miss those days of yore, that small village in Wales, and I miss my children, whether they are in the next town, state, or country. They are all out on their own now; half of them married with children. But when they were part of my milieu, my surroundings, they took up a lot of my time, as I took up a lot of that small Welsh village's time. 

Adjusting our love and care for children to today's world should be an affirmative journey, not one of fear, resentment, or inconvenience. I am thankful that my children do not feel restricted in their world of watchfulness and shielding. I don't know what the world will be like when my children care for their own, but I do know that the values of love, respect, courage, and appreciation for all that is good and honest, and for each other, will serve them well.

                © Roy H. Barnacle 2011

The Best of Both Worlds

By Roy H. Barnacle

Someone once told me that having a lot of friends is not necessarily the best thing in the world. He told me that having one or two that you can love, trust, someone who cares and shares from the heart, is about all one needs. I think he was right.

I had such a friend. His name was Carl and he was from that land of windmills and dykes and tulips and clogs - Holland. I can say "Holland" now, but in his presence, it always had to be the Netherlands, or "Nayderlont", as he so musically pronounced it.

Carl passed several years ago, but recently my daughter revived my love and respect for this painter and artist. She had visited Amsterdam, and in that city of canals and one "built upon dodgy foundations both literally with sand, wood, and gravel laid upon one another to build the ever sinking architecture" as she put it. "I wanted to see it through his eyes." In her own recollections, she helped me recall my friendship with this ballet-loving Dutchman.

Each Saturday morning, weather and social schedules permitting, Carl and I had breakfast together. He and I almost always had the same thing: eggs Benedict and whole wheat toast for him; American omelet and white toast for me.

Carl was an ancient, full of wisdom and experience. I was almost 20 years his junior, yet I remained engrossed by tales of his boyhood in his native Holland, his adventures in the Dutch underground, and his constant efforts to keep his painting alive as a meaningful part of his life.

Carl and I talked about the old days and compared them to how we lived today. We shared our lives as if we were lending each other our favorite books, eliciting views and opinions. I never fail to admire and cherish this man who still showed great vitality after so many years. Yet, he called me "smart as a vip" in his delightful accent, because I programed his VCR or fix the lock on his back door that only needed some oil.

Every Saturday, Robert and I had lunch together. Robert was no more than a child at the time, full of innocence and pep. He is my son. Robert did not have a favorite eating place; we could go anywhere - to a fast food place, an established restaurant, or a drive-through. Robert talked about his favorite fire truck books, how he liked snow, and what he was going to do later on in the day. Talking about next month, next year, or even next Wednesday was beyond Robert. His was the world of the moment, the immediate. Life was much too exciting to think about what it could be, or what it once was.

Meeting with these two, a young child, probing his world with eyes and ears, and Carl, with years of kindly "been there done that" was uniquely stimulating. I considered myself very fortunate as I swung between their two worlds, mixing maturity with the unadorned, wisdom with guilelessness, and venerability with the unexplored. Aside from their differences in age and experience, they had much in common. Both had a wonderful sense of humor. Both chose their words carefully. Both had a sparkle in them as they relate their own images of life.

This kind of recipe is powerful against all kinds of assaults by the world of mediocrity and the commonplace. Both gave me a sense of the future and the past. Carl is my future -- one not mired in worn and archaic bearings, but of continued enlightenment. Through him, I experience the wisdom of his past, and I delight in his vitality.

Robert also represents the future, for obvious reasons. I also saw,and still see my past in his young bright eyes, in his eagerness to explore new horizons. Carl talked about mixing new colors; Robert dragged me out at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning to crack ice in the puddles on the dirt road. Carl mapped out his designs on foolscap; Robert traced his in the frost on the window pane.

Breakfast with Carl and Robert, had no age, no education, or the lack of interfering with the way of these two individuals enjoyed each other's company. I watched them and was filled with affection.

My being with the two of them gives rise to the thought that this is what families, or communities, should be like. Carl teaches me principles and learning. Robert teaches me trust and aspiration.

Between these two friends, I reveled in two worlds, taking from each the very best to maintain and build my own.

 ©  Roy H. Barnacle  2013