The Road

It was a long, long weekend. It’s been perhaps the longest weekend (not in a good way) that I’ve ever had.

Friday at noonish I became a Canadian. There was a ceremony. It was really nice. Everyone was happy. Really, truly happy. There wasn’t anyone there who wasn’t excited and pleased to be there. They handed out little Canadian flags and it was delightful. It couldn’t have been better.

My dad and I had been preparing to move for days. The truck was loaded, and it was time to go. Our U-Haul truck was monstrous (the 23 foot one) and it was completely stuffed. Now, only 3200 miles stood between us and our new house out west. Well, “new” house. If you recall, I spent the last summer living with my grandfather. After he died, my parents took possession of his house, and now it’s ours. I’m not too keen on living at home for too awful long, but this will do for now.

So off we go. We left at 4pm on Friday. We just drove. All night. Saturday night, at 5 or so (25 hours after leaving home) we got a hotel outside of Toledo, Ohio. After staying there, we kept driving (no more stopping) and made it to our house at noon on Monday. It was an exhausting and awful trip crammed into tiny and uncomfortable seats, but it’s over.

There are a ton of stories I could say about this trip. I’ve narrowed it down to two.

On Saturday morning, after driving all night, we had to stop for gas. We had been avoiding the turnpike roads, so we were in more rural strange areas. We found a gas station in Brookville, Pennsylvania. My parents and I were looking a little icky with our unwashed clothes and oily hair, but we were the classiest people in the establishment. I went inside to buy my incredibly nutritious lunch of Hostess Cupcakes (serious) and some bottles of water. The cashier had some difficulty with the cash register and doing math by hand, so she waved me off and said “just take it. Just go. Go away with those things.” Her manager didn’t approve this, however, and I did pay for my cupcakes. Heading out to the U-Haul that was just finishing fuelling, we all piled in and got ready to go back to the highway. A woman in a pickup truck pulled up beside us. “Y’all ain’t movin’ here, are ya? Get the hell out of this place!”

Mom replied, nicely that we were going to Montana. “Good. Go there. Don’t stay here.” I wish I knew what made her feel that way about tiny Brookville.

Two days later, on Monday morning, we were driving through Lame Deer, Montana. Lame Deer is well into the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation. We were driving along the highway, when there are suddenly several of the reservation police officers were blocking off the road. First instinct: car accident. But then there were cars entirely draped in colorful blankets (safety hazard?) and flags and people in costumes and a band. Not a car wreck, a Memorial Day parade. In all of the driving, we had forgotten it was a holiday. It was nice to have that after several days of bad food and no radio.

I’m now firmly installed in Montana and am rested after my days of being confined to the truck. I’m glad that the trip is over. Now I’m ready to get right into the exciting summer.