Day 1: Stouffer's, Rest Stops, and a Doors-on-the-Outside Hotel

My dad gave me some helpful road trip advice yesterday. He said that, at some point, I'll find myself focusing mostly on the destination and get anxious about it while driving. So, when that happens, I need to put myself back in the car, in the here and now. Look around. I am driving. I am seeing America. Yesterday, the road from Oxford to Oklahoma City (550 miles) provided an anxiety opposite of the one my dad described. I thought about childhood a lot, and Mississippi: how a place holds your memories, and leaving that place for a while feels like I'm abandoning parts of myself. 

Entering Arkansas
I guess I didn't think Tennessee was a big enough
deal to capture. 

I felt the ache mostly the night before I left. So, I turned to food. As a kid and teenager, we passed around black plastic containers of Stouffer's at my Grandmother's kitchen table. It's calming to think of her, her home, and our unique version of family dinner. Apparently, the most important part of dinner was that we were all at the same table together. So, John and I sat down at his table (a rare occasion) and passed around Stouffer's spinach souffle, baked apples, and macaroni and cheese. With the pinot noir, it put me at ease. Moreover, it really put into perspective the notion of place and of home. The only way I can reach Grandmother is through my memories because she's gone, and her kitchen with her tiny, obsolete television and the flowered wallpaper is all still there so clear in my head when everything about my future is blurry. Memories are strong, and they live longer than the physical presence of the event, person, or place we remember. There is such an element of grief in driving away, though, in physically leaving the place that is so ingrained in my makeup. 

My great friends made me mix CDs for the drive (how can I leave these people?). I imagine their selection process for each song, and it makes me feel like they're so close. Hope made me cookies, and gave me snacks and magazines for the ride. I'm really glad she gave me a Cosmo magazine because I can just hear her reading each sex tip out loud and laughing while I hide my head in my hands out of embarrassment. 

Arkansas got really pretty right before Fort Smith. The Ozarks are verdant and rolling and benevolent to the driving eye. Oklahoma is a bunch of farmland and Indian names. Little Skin Creek, Big Skin Creek, Sallisaw. I really wanted to stop and see the Trail of Tears museum and Sequoia's cabin, but it was already going to be dark when I arrived in Oklahoma City, so I couldn't spare the time.

Dirty windshield.

Hoka is the best travel companion I could imagine. My car is completely packed except for the front two seats. As a passenger, she makes a great navigator because she never argues with me about where we need to go and when. If you know Hoka, you know that she's basically mute except for the rare times her territorial instinct kicks in. Other than that, she sighs and groans to indicate her needs. Sighing means that she's bored with me so she'll go on to sleep due to her lack of options. Groaning means that she can't sleep and is stuck with being bored. She's the most highly stimulated being I've ever come across. When I'm in a room with her, she'll sit in the middle and continuously turn her entire body to the direction of whatever I'm doing. However, the car ride has some kind of drugging effect on her. It reminds me of how Steinbeck describes the deafening hum of the train when the main characters in In Dubious Battle sleep on the boxcars they hopped. It just forces them to sleep with its loud and low vibrations. So, yeah, Hoka just lies there, and it's pleasant to rest my hand on her and know that some soft living thing is in this with me. Quietly. 

The sun makes Hoka so hot, so I pile some ice on her coat to cool her down.

Another plus of having Hoka with me is rest stops. I love Mississippi, but it doesn't know how to do rest stops. Arkansas had gorgeous green fields in its rest stop, and Oklahoma had tee-pees for picnic tables, and lots of trees and flowers. Plus, people love to see animals after they've been sitting in a car for hours and hours (I'm sure it signifies the more organic notion of life rather than the humanized notion of sitting in metal for hours while rolling along on pavement) so Hoka gets lots of attention at rest stops. She runs around really hard, and then passes out in the car. It's a great balance.

Lunchable for dinner!

I stayed at the luxurious Baymont Inn and Suites in Oklahoma City, where the lady at the front desk asked me how ''The Gaga Girl'' was. Apparently, Lady Gaga had struck Oklahoma City, and she assumed from my disheveled appearance that I had been at the concert. The Baymont Inn and Suites was one of the only hotels to accept pets, and it was my very first encounter with a hotel with the doors on the outside. Hoka was not pleased. She kept her ears down all night and barked at any movement outside the door. I promised her no more hotels with the doors on the outside rather than the inside, and she calmed down a little bit. 

Oklahoma sunset.

My gorgeous girl and her pink tongue.

Oklahoma sunset (I played with it a little)

I'm currently in Albuquerque, and exhausted, so I'll post the much more exciting account of today's trip in the morning before I leave. Stay tuned, folks. Peace.

And We're Off!

Headed to Oklahoma City today (Day 1).
I'll post more when I get to the hotel!

Hoka volunteers to drive if I don't hurry up.

Said goodbye to The Downtown and Cafe au Lait at Bottletree Bakery.

John got the big-as-your-head cinnamon roll.

Little bit teary eyed. Yes, sad, but also banged my head on the car door right before this picture. It hurt!

There is only enough room left in the car for Hoka, me, and the clementines I'm holding in this picture.

I hate goodbyes, and leaving this part of my life. Maybe it's just a hiatus. Peace.

Your Name

brings with it the low creak

of the gate that let you

into my backyard

on early Saturdays.

Dressed by your mother

in the white sailor shirt

with a blue collar, you

raced barefoot across

my overgrown yard,

climbed my magnolia tree,

spied on the neighbors,

and went home after we

could not find any more

lightning bugs for your jar--

a lantern for the dark walk home.

It's the first poem I remember writing. I even used it in my portfolio when I applied to grad schools last fall for Masters in Fine Arts for Poetry. I guess if it's possible (of course it is!) to have a lucky poem, that's what it is. So, I'm establishing this place (I feel like I'm going to get scared off if I use the term "blog") for my Saturday mornings.

It's been 10 years since the backyard years, but remember when Saturday mornings were the bees knees? You'd wake up at dawn, and go play with your brother in the yard, climb trees, draw in dirt with sticks, hide in the azalea bushes. However long it's been, I still get that rush on Saturday mornings--even when I'm hungover all day, giddy at the idea of staying in bed with an entire pizza in my lap, E! network on the TV, and a gallon of gatorade on the bedside table.

So, yeah, I'll post on regular days, too, but keep Saturday morning in mind. I'm about to go through a major transition. My dog, Hoka, and I are about to drive across the country and live in California for two years. I'm attending St. Mary's College of California, and I am astounded at how terrified I am to go to such a welcoming place. I am leaving Mississippi, the hospitality state, so I guess that makes sense.

This is my dream--writing all the time, constantly taking part in workshops. I'm following it. It sounds cheesy. Hell yes, it's cheesy. Remember the last scene of Slumdog Millionaire when he says (maybe she says it), "kiss me," and then they end the movie with a kiss? CHEEZ. But, it got best film at the Oscars, because when something is good, an inevitable amount of cheese is involved. Welcome to my cheese.