As we climbed into Little Red at Hampton Plantation in Maryland, I knew this was our final tourist stop. The wind roared around us and Little Red swayed. No question, weather was sending a message.
Suddenly, a crack in the distance broke the whistling. "A tree," I guessed.
A block away, as we left the Hampton driveway, we saw the culprits. A large branch blocked the road on the hilltop, but down below at the main gate a huge collapsed tree had taken the power lines. The transformer exploded in white flashes and giant balls of flame.
"I guess we will try a different exit," said Andy, "and a whole lot of people around here won't have power tonight."
"Nothing like going out in a flash of brilliance," I joked.
We paid our tolls and zipped through Delaware. Wind gusts rocked the car, jostling us back and forth on the bridges.
New Jersey disgraced. With the Rest Area closed and locked due to Governor Chris Christie's cut-backs, the state had provided four Porta-Potties. Apparently, funds were not allotted for upkeep though.
"That's just disgusting," said Andy. They were hardly usable.
John Steinbeck witnessed the sickness of discrimination and prejudice as he drove through Louisiana and the South in 1960. He wrote, "I was ill with a kind of sorrow." And he headed home immediately in a kind of blind fury, his exploration of America over soon after he left New Orleans. He wrote, "Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased." Steinbeck's trip had not continued.
John Steinbeck witnessed the sickness of discrimination and prejudice as he drove through Louisiana and the South in 1960. He wrote, "I was ill with a kind of sorrow." And he headed home immediately in a kind of blind fury, his exploration of America over soon after he left New Orleans. He wrote, "Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased." Steinbeck's trip had not continued.
We experienced no such racial tension, only the economic divisions more and more evident between the haves and have nots in a country with a dwindling middle class.
But I knew our trip had ended last night when Andy turned off the weather and said, "Saturday isn't worth it if Friday and Sunday are lousy. We can save a few nights in motels since we're this close to home." He had made up his mind.
We headed into black thunder snow clouds with winds gusting 60 m.p.h. At the Connecticut state welcome sign, three-foot piles of snow suddenly lined the highways, even though there was barely a splotch in New York City and none in New Jersey. Here at home, winter ruled.
We headed into black thunder snow clouds with winds gusting 60 m.p.h. At the Connecticut state welcome sign, three-foot piles of snow suddenly lined the highways, even though there was barely a splotch in New York City and none in New Jersey. Here at home, winter ruled.
Well after dark Little Red glided up the driveway--25,228 miles in 165 days, an average of 153 miles per day--a journey complete.
Like John Steinbeck wrote, "And that's how the travelers came home again."
Like John Steinbeck wrote, "And that's how the travelers came home again."
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