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Halfway

 

I crossed the 45^th parallel today.  Not once, but twice, inside three hours: I crossed the invisible line which marks the halfway point between the earth’s equator and the North Pole.  

 

Reflecting on this event brings back many memories, none of which include this exact achievement.  No, I did do this once before, cross this invisible line twice inside hours, but I wasn’t old enough to drive.  I was the designated co-pilot on that trip; we were picking up my father after his car broke down on the way north.

 

Co-pilot was my job every year when my mother hauled us all on our annual northern summer vacation pilgrimage.  Dad would come up later in the summer for several brief stays; most of the summer, it was just us kids and Mom staying at the lake.  From the time I was six years old until I was seventeen, we made this annual trek like lemmings to the sea.  In this case, it was a fresh water inland sea that beckoned, its irresistible untamed nature calling to the same in my parents and siblings.

 

Sometime after Easter each year, Mom would begin to hoard a pile of dried goods and other sundries we’d need for a three-month long vacation.  Squirrel-like, you’re thinking.  Yes, we’ve accused her of that, the Great Mother Squirrel hoarding nuts for the summer.  Just like her to be a bit perverse and save for a season which was otherwise rich.

 

The hoarding accelerated until the week after school ended for summer vacation.  We’d stuff everything the Great Mother Squirrel accrued into a butt-ugly avocado-green Dodge station wagon, complete with dog and three kids (four after my youngest brother came along), and make for I-75 North.  We’d stay on 75 until just past the Mackinaw Bridge, and then make headway northwestward.  Twelve hours, cooped up with annoying little bloodsucking siblings, my mother’s nerves gradually fraying along the way.  Fortunately, there were never any points at which she had to lose her cool completely; the journey offered entertaining punctuations in ennui at the right points along the way.  The first four hours were typically very sleepy; at five in the morning, everything is still, children still hushed, highways still open.  On departure in Ohio, it would be an early summer morning, the dew still warmly hanging in the air, the sun threatening to rise.  By the time we arrived at our summer digs, the sun would be threatening to fall west; there would still be plenty of light by which to unload the nasty green beast of burden.  We’d crack Mom a well-deserved beer, the first of summer vacation, and head over the top of the dune for the beach.

 

My job as co-pilot seemed very important at the time.  I would make sure to count the little numbers along each stretch from our last stop until our next stop; I could tell my mother on demand how many miles until Grayling and how many since we passed Bay City.  It didn’t occur to me for several years that it’s tough to get lost if you’re on the longest stretch of federal highway in the state.  No matter, I could tell you how long and how far anywhere along the way.  The maps of Ohio and Michigan were in my hot, grubby grip for most of the twelve hours…except for when I performed my other duties.

 

The designated co-pilot was also responsible for a multitude of minor chores: doling out of the wax-paper wrapped PBJ or tuna fish sandwiches, after wresting them from the red-plaid cooler; official beverage pourer, carefully dispensing cold Kool-Aid in paper cups to siblings or piping hot coffee from the matching red-plaid thermos for Mom.  Oh yeah, change the channel as soon as a radio station got too scratchy or popping in an 8-track tape if the stations all petered out.  (We’d be close to our destination when the 8-tracks came out.)

 

I didn’t really realize the real importance of the designated co-pilot job until today. 

 

My kids were all bundled into the back of my Honda CR-V, a passel of duffle bags and inflatable toys, flip-flop sandals and juice boxes packed into every nook and cranny of cargo space.  My folks have offered to watch the kids for the next several days until I can come up north and join them for a couple of weeks; we agreed to hand off at the Mackinaw Bridge.  Dad/Grandpa would meet us at the Visitor’s Center; we’d have a little nosh, let the kids stretch, then Dad/Grandpa would make his way back to camp, three hours west and north.  I’d return home along I-75 whence I came.

 

This generation’s Great Mother Squirrel only needed 48 hours to accrue the required hoard, since the Great-Great Mother Squirrel has now a permanent hoard in the Great White North.  I washed every stitch of summer clothing and the sleeping bags, gave the kids detailed lists of things they needed to pack, checked everything twice, bundled it out in duffle bags and headed out of town.  Unfortunately, I didn’t get much sleep last night; the last load of laundry came out at 1:30 am.  I was dog-tired this morning when I woke up at 6:30 am.

 

We left a scant ten minutes behind schedule.  Nuts, my dad is tryingly punctual; he’ll be antsy and want to leave as soon as I show up with the kids, leaving them no time to stretch.  I do my best to step on it, clearly speeding, but also within a “safe” margin – other cars were still passing me.  (I suppose that’s not much of a challenge since I’m driving a cheesy four-cylinder engine.)

 

Taking back roads out of town earn me back my ten minutes and then some.  I fly through farms, corn not-quite-knee-high on one side of the road, sugar beets on the other.  White beans and soybeans are still just breaking through the crust of the soil, making for a patchwork of stippled dirt, verdant green and paler green squares.  The kids are entertained for a few minutes by calling out the names of the crops.  WHEAT!! They shout, pointing at the rolling field of winter wheat that will gradually dry to gold in the next 6 weeks. 

 

It doesn’t last long; we’re on I-75 and the crops are harder to discern at higher speeds from a greater distance.  The toys are broken out of their packing; the head phones are on one child while the other makes tiny noises with his new Power Ranger.  It’s suddenly rather quiet; I listen to NPR on a local station until it fades.

 

As I listen, I’m thinking about day-to-day sundries: did I forget to pack something?  Should I call the realtor now?  How many miles to the gallon am I getting?  After a time, I’ve exhausted all the mental detritus put off to the side while preparing for this brief trip.  I’m alone with my diminishing reverie.

 

The scenery has changed, I notice.  The fields are no longer flat, as they are where we live; they undulate slightly, then more so.  The farms have changed, too; not just the fields and the amount of acreage, but the outbuildings and equipment.  A farmer cuts hay using a tractor that must have been new in the 50’s; I’m reminded of a David Hockney painting as the tractor rolls over the crest of a hill, leaving a trail of darker green on a field of lighter green behind it.  The barns are, well, barns; they’re red-painted wooden structures with mansard roofs, not the massive metal pole barns more common down state.  They’re readily distinguished from garages, these archetypal barns.

 

Another change noted: the trees are no longer hardwood deciduous.  They’re fluttering pulpwood, intermingled with the deciduous; aspens here, birches there, thin trunked, rounded leaves waving in the breeze.  I’m sure I could smell the difference if I rolled down the windows.  Just as I note this, the scenery changes again.  The road begins to roll and undulate, too; now pines and firs are mixed into the green-on-green palette painting the roadside.

 

Mmm, this means I’m nearly north, getting closer.  These telltale changes I'd also noted as a child, watching these indicators as closely as road signs and mile markers.   They make me feel at ease, comfortable, relaxed.

 

I could use a nap.  I’m suddenly drowsy.  Damn, I don’t know if I can stay awake now.

 

I ask my daughter behind me, Can you read a map?

 

Sure, she says eagerly.

 

No, really, can you?  Can you tell me how far it is until the Mackinaw Bridge?  I haven’t seen a mileage sign in a while now.

 

Umm, I can try, she says, as she takes the map.  No, I really don’t know how, but I’ll try, she says.  She scours for the little numbers along side the long red scrawl that is I-75 North.

 

Ah, there’s a sign ahead, I tell her.  It says, "45^th Parallel, Halfway between the Equator and the North Pole".

 

Cool!, she says, then resumes her whispered counting and adding while tracing our path ahead.

 

The yawning jag has stopped now.

 

The magnitude and significance of what has just transpired dawns on me slowly; it feels like a much needed stretch.

 

  9:11:56 PM    comment []