On the road again – to a New Year

Funny, when we were kids, Virginia was “down south.” From where we are this morning, in the western Virginia mountains, it has a decidedly “up north” appearance. And feel.

The oaks here in the Roanoke area have lost their leaves. Their skeletons form over-planted hedgerows, softening the hills yet nearly as impenetrable as the pines and cypress trees. Their tight grip on their leaves – needles – turns them somehow dark and sullen.

The light is subdued, at 10 in the morning. A thin cloud cover looks like dryer lint spread across the screen, wrinkling as it is pulled off gently to form a pleated blanket of felt. Before we reach our destination the clouds will release a light but thoroughly winter rain.

Darkness falls halfway up I-77 on our way to I-81. We treat ourselves to an inexpensive but filling meal, then watch two hours of Renée Fleming singing Christmas music with, first, the Mormon Tabernacle Chorus, then the orchestra and chorus of the Cathedral of Mainz, Germany.

We can’t count the number of times we’ve made this trip. Jean was posted to Harrisonburg, Va. by the U.S. Forest Service when she began her career with that agency, and we swapped driving back and forth for several years. She moved to Fresno and then Juneau, when she met Brian and moved to Leesburg, Va. to marry him.

Suffice to say we can get loose and travel to northern Virginia where live most of the people we love best more easily than they can come to Georgia. But it’s becoming very tiresome. It takes us two days of driving to cover that 700+ miles, and the older we get, the more we’d like to find an alternative. Flying is at least as hectic, although we lose only about a day of our lives instead of two.

We’re now about 50 miles from Jean’s house, and Dave is in full grumble.

“I’m never doing this again.”

Feel free to break in at any time; he’ll restart at the first opportunity. “I must have been out of my mind to let you talk me into this. And now it’s raining. How can anything more go wrong?” Which is puzzling in that I haven’t noticed that anything had gone really wrong in these two days.

The winter landscape is enchanting, the more so because you can see so much more of it. There, off to the right. A church with a bell tower that looks like a silo. A dozen mullein stalks cling to the steep embankment alongside the Interstate. And a fat lady has pulled over onto the emergency lane to walk a little dog, a Chihuahua, I believe.

Traffic is heavy in places, but moving well. Getting through Atlanta is probably the worst, eased considerably by the HOV lane. Love that HOV lane!

One wreck slowed things down, a few miles north of Charlotte, and there were only a couple of construction sites to cope with.

Maybe it’s the season, maybe my imagination, but it seems to me that most of the drivers of 18-wheelers exhibit courtesy and tolerance for slow-moving vehicles like our small RV. I confess to an admiration for professional drivers. Seems to me that those who keep their rigs spotless will carry out the rest of their responsibilities with the same diligence and pride.

Look at this colorful highway. A purple tractor, a brilliant yellow Mustang, a metallic blue Nissan stand out now that the background is brown. The fallow fields are brown, the patches on the median a soft brown despite the sign that says “Wildflowers – Do not pick,” the white inner bark of the sycamore trees are streaked with brown as the outer layers peel away.

We play tag with some of the big trucks as we cover the miles. A cheese truck passed us at least three times. We noticed that the weigh stations are open and busy even well into twilight. We pass the cheese truck at the weigh station, then he catches up and passes us. Another weigh station, another time we take the lead, but our stopping for a quick lunch of pizza left over from last evening’s dinner gave him the uncontested lead.

Boar’s Head Brand took the prize with is black and red and gold 18-wheeler. Fed-Ex had its double-trucks serving as Santa Claus back-up, and I do believe they were all on I-81 in Virginia.

Why did the guys in the weigh station not pull the monstrous Barr-Nunn rig off the road to be weighed? I guess cell phones have earned a place on the road, rendering CB radios obsolete.

From the broad roadway carrying I-85 in Georgia to the lake-dotted road in South Carolina to the mountains of North Carolina that bear a ridge line that looks like a child drew it between us and the horizon, the police were out.

As many times as we’ve traveled that route, we have rarely seen more than one officer per state. This time? We lost count of the blue lights. They were city, county, and state police, mounted on motorcycles, cruisers, and one police service vehicle. Just doing their jobs, in heavy traffic and deteriorating weather.

Only a few days now. Wonder if they’ve finished their shopping.

God bless these unsung heroes keeping us safe, as well as those traveling to be with loved ones. May their New Years be bright, every one.