It didn’t occur to me until recently that mine is a classic westward movement story. Sweating my miserable way along the endless, treeless expanses of North Dakota and Montana at the height of an overheated August in 1978 , the notion that I was following in the footsteps of my pioneer predecessors never suggested itself to me. Accompanied by my resistant ten-year-old, my compliant four-year-old and my idealistic husband, I set out. Our two vans, his the beautiful aquamarine color of Lake Michigan reflecting a cloudless summer sky, and mine the brilliant bronze of a bright Pacific afternoon, slowly ate up the miles between Chicago and undetermined points west. Escaping the stifling over-crowded Midwestern cities and towns of my teen and young adult years was what this migration was all about. Fleeing the expectations and smothering influences of parents and siblings prompted this extreme act.
Our relatives are not dictatorial people, but Hal’s and my conversion to the nonconformist, rebellious beliefs of the Hippie movement had put us into conflict with them. Both his blue-collar, Archie Bunker Republican folks and my middle-class, Roman Catholic, Kennedy Democrat clan had difficulty accepting our rejection of cultural and familial expectations. The beautiful suburban town with its elm shaded streets and steadfast brick houses favored our staying where we were; our desire to raise our children in a more rural, less confining and certainly less conforming setting demanded our moving on.
Leavetaking was not without its bitterness. Ten-year-old Susie was comfortable and happy, surrounded as she was by close friends and adoring grandparents. She did not go quietly; her objections were loud and very public. “Poor Susie,” my mother would observe sympathetically during our six months’ preparation for departure. Mom could not imagine why her eldest child would be foolish enough to leave the bosom of her loving family to accompany her raving mad husband on this idiotic quest. She didn’t say as much, of course; “Poor Susie” summed up her sentiments precisely. I was wracked with guilt, both at tearing my daughter from her secure surroundings and at separating from my parents, really for the first time in my life. I was reminded of my own nearly hysterical reaction at the age of thirteen to my family’s moving across the country from my beloved North Jersey shore to the western suburbs of Chicago. The fact that both the former and the latter events would turn out for the best was not immediately apparent.
Our two vans loaded with our earthly possessions, we began our journey. Almost immediately Hal’s van developed a problem. The hiss of antifreeze noisily escaping the radiator was alarmingly loud. Our CB radios, the use of which mandated our using anonymous handles: Mr. Natural and Honeybunch Kaminski, crackled with the bad news. “Something’s wrong.” This from Mr. Natural.
“What’s up?” replied Honeybunch.
"Sounds like the radiator."
Heart racing, my frantic interior monologue commenced: Great--six o’clock on a Friday afternoon in the summer--a garage is really likely to be open for business just now! Hal exited the tollway in Fondulac, Wisconsin, a distinctly unpromising-looking small town, and pulled into a repair shop. My husband, who happens to be somewhat mechanically inclined, discussed the problem with the mechanic, who was, of course, leaving for the day. Hal and the mechanic agreed upon a plan: Hal would pull the radiator; meanwhile the mechanic would go home for dinner, returning afterward to get us patched up and on the road again. Would wonders never cease?
Traveling as we were on a very tight budget, the prospect of having repair work done by a stranger freaked us out completely. “Maybe we should just go home,” Susie suggested hopefully. Not a chance! We spent an anxious couple of hours - Hal leaning over the engine compartment to remove the radiator; the kids and me sitting on the curb nearby, our chins resting in our hands, hoping for the best. The mechanic, a tall lanky guy in a beat-up cowboy hat, returned from dinner as promised. He repaired the radiator and quickly installed it. Observing our obviously agitated state, he asked about our destination.
“We’re moving out West, “ I answered.
“I always wanted to do that!” he responded.
“What do we owe you?” Hal inquired.
“Not a darned penny; have a great trip and good luck to you, “ replied our savior. Recognizing this encounter as a sign from the Cosmos that our trip was blessed, we continued on to our interim destination, St. Paul, Minnesota.
We arrived in high spirits to be greeted by my brother, Dave and our good friends, Joe and Barb--all of whom had, several years earlier, escaped from Chicago and its familial force field. Our plan was to spend a few days visiting before we left the Midwest for good. We filled our days with deep discussions about the necessity to break away from the Chicago suburbs and their evil influence--and affluence. A simpler life was what we sought.
Music frequently accompanied our activities. One morning Hal described a dream he’d had the previous night. “I was driving, and when I looked down, the cover illustration of Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman album appeared on the dashboard. The caption read, On the Road to Find Out. The soundtrack for our lives was eclectic; Paul Butterfield’s “Born in Chicago,” Cream’s “I Feel Free,” “ Teach Your Children,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, “California Dreamin’ “ by The Mamas and the Papas and, of course, Grateful Dead’s “Truckin’. ” We often listened to Cat Stevens; the words to On the Road to Find Out were applicable to our journey:
Well, I left my happy home to see what I could find out,
I left my folk and friends with the aim to clear my mind out...
So on and on I go, the seconds tick the time out,
there’s so much more to know, and I’m on the road to find out...
Inspired by Hal’s recounting of his dream, Barb got out her paints and, by evening, had replicated the album cover, not on the dashboard, but all the way across the driver’s side of the van. The Tillerman, with flame red beard, broad brimmed, feathered hat, his teacup poised for a sip, was attended by the words, On the Road to Find Out! Our lead rig suitably attired, we continued our adventure.
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