Path to Grove City
Prologue
I think it was Chrysostomos, frequent commenter on Thomas of ER’s blog, who said that the constant conversational writing of blogs was killing his muse, snuffing his creativity. “Video killed the radio star” you might say.
And while this may or may not be a great tragedy for the reading public, it does strike a minor key for those of us who dabble in our journals and enjoy the endorphin of an occasionally good line. In view of this I’ll try to make my blog less thoughtful and more eye-rollingly insufferable. It's summer after all. Least I can do.
As mentioned in a former post I’ll begin the travelogue concerning a trip from one Ohio suburb to another, recorded in as painstaking detail as can be produced from purely imaginative sources since I have no intention of actually walking it, for I like sleeping in my own bed.
Chapter 1
Deciding which books to bring took longer than expected, it coming down to a series of eleven hundred coin flips. Such packing decisions weighed heavy but were made lighter by the weather - a fine sparkling-wine sort of May day, the kind that makes you want to rise early to greet the 11am sun. I spent the next few hours buying things. A sturdy pair of hiking boots, a backpack, cans of Guinness Stout, a lighter and a compass all found their way into my cart. By 4pm I was ready for a “last meal”, carefully prepared and shared with my wife and daughter. Hugs and tears were exchanged; the three days I’d be gone would be hard but they were assuaged when I told them the insurance was paid up.
I began the long journey to Grove City in the glow of burnished sun assisted by a repast of Lambrusco, spaghetti, and Swiftian quantities of chocolate cake. Calories were my friend. Ham of Bone had made himself scarce; “a friend in need's a friend I don’t need” was his saying, alas. Here was a trip in which we could together fight off the dragons of fatigue and shoo the fleas of boredom. Three days…three long days. An eternity for the short-attention theatre crowd.
I chided myself for these thoughts of despair, for what were they but any other temptation? Some souls have unchaste thoughts, others tend toward avarice. Was it Tertullian who said that you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your temptations?
The twelve mile journey south began in a residential neighborhood with natural hazards like lawn sprinklers, barking dogs and statues of faux deer. I wasn't packing heat, at least not yet, but I'd be going by pawn shops and I had the cash. The long boulevard took me past an ancient auto body shop and the rusted cars and sharp division of sun and shade made by the garage brought back memories of Mexico, a place I'd never actually been but had seen on television many times. I was moved by it, and by the guy in the white T-shirt who moved in slow motion, opening the car hood as if it were the weight of the world. "Blue-collar dude in his native habitat", I thought to myself...
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