Twenty Miles of Memories and Emotions

The rural route 370 spans part of the ride between Syracuse and Rochesrer. Along that twenty mile stretch of road, I have left thirty years of memories and every emotion imaginable.

There was love and excitement back when I was traveling to Syracuse to see my girlfriend (now wife) in the early mornings after working night shift for a whole summer in '96. I would arrive at her parent's house and sleep on that short, uncomfortable, wicker couch for a few hours before we spent the day together.

There was warmth and nostalgia heading westward to spend Thanksgiving in Webster, which my mom claimed as her holiday after my girls were born. She loved cooking the turkey, two kinds of stuffing (inside the bird and out), homemade mashed potatoes, and gravy. And she never gave up the tradition of serving the cranberry sauce shaped like a can and the bowl of black olives, though nobody ever ate either of those. However, we do have the obligatory photos of my little girls with olives on all their fingertips. There might also be a Polaroid of me somewhere doing the same thing when I was young.

There was trepidation and determination the night we drove home in a huge snow storm. The entire twenty miles had not been plowed at all before we trekked through, and nobody else was crazy enough to leave their tire tracks for us. A full foot of undisturbed snow covered the roadway and there was no way to tell where the pavement ended and the ditch began. It was fortunate that I had been there before a few hundred times!

There was amusement and laughs whenever I drove past the nondescript corner bar in Meridian, where my dad would tell the story about how he and his friend would stop for a beer on their way home from the computer shows at the NY State fairgrounds. He would wonder what the country folk would be thinking about a German guy and an Iranian guy showing up together in their rural farm town pub. I vowed to never visit the place myself so I wouldn't spoil my imagination of the moment.

There was sadness and despair when I frequented back and forth the weeks before and after my mother's death. It was a particular flurry of morning, daytime, and overnight driving on weekdays and weekends alike. I can distinctly recall that moment of exasperation when the doctor called en route back home to tell me she asked to be placed on the vent again. There were tears and blurred vision on a few of those rides after she was gone.

Today my drive started as anger and frustration at my brother who continues to disregard my advice, requests, and assistance. His thought processes are becoming more and more disorganized and bizarre as the months without medication continue. I have lots of work to do on the house to get it ready to sell. He doesn't want to leave the only place he has ever lived, and he can't understand why I need to fix things or pull up the carpets to expose the never-before seen hardwood floors.

The amazing thing about this cathartic stretch of road is how my memories and emotions always blend into the contentedness of a quality life lived. Despite the vast array of experiences that happened on either side of this section of road, the route has essentially stayed the same. The farmland continues to produce a variety of crops and wonderful scenery. That single light still shines on that one squat building at the corner in Victory. The dinky ice cream shop in Meridian has its moments of crowds in the summer and darkness in the winter. The grand brick farmhouse on the top of that hill is still, well, grand. The old stately middle school next to the modern high school still soldiers on after suffering a fire a few years ago. That one tiny ranch house still radiates in its bright purple glory. The shade from the undeveloped forest areas always cools the air on those blazing sunny days. The house with the wood fence stuffs as many plastic and blow-up decorations as possible in their yard for pretty much every holiday! There are pieces of me mixed in every mile of this road. Yet not once did I stop to visit any of these landmarks. I never needed to. My old friend was always moving by my window at least 30 miles per hour.

The end of an era is soon coming to a close, though. When I sell the house in Webster, the route will no longer be needed. I hardly recognize my hometown anymore anyways. My kids are growing up and moving on. It's OK though, because I realize that this road has a forever place in my heart.

Perhaps it is now time to start flying.