Thankful for Thanksgiving Travels

Greetings all. We're back (physically) from our holiday. For details, see Friday Letter #76, below.

High plains adventure

On the face of it, setting off cross-country in a 40-year-old car wouldn't seem like a rational thing to do.

But we did it. I, a 66-year-old man, and my lovely wife Laura, a 46-year-old woman, drove to Indiana and back in that 40-year-old car during the Thanksgiving holiday. We had done this before, and now we have done it again.

The car is a 1968 Ford XL 500 which was purchased new from Bob Rice Ford in
Boise. Laura's sister Bonnie was its first owner, but she isn't the only driver to flog the car mercilessly. I do my part.

After I pleaded, pitched a fit, threw a carpet-pounding tantrum and got on my knees and begged, Bonnie gifted us with this road-monster in 1998.

Since that time, we have been restoring the car from the inside out. It has about 40,000 miles on its rebuilt engine and accessories.

Sometimes, driving this car and keeping it running can be a lot like herding cats. But we do it.

Because we started late (what else is new) we decided to take the interstate from Colorado to Dyer, Indiana. At Dyer, we spent the days and nights with my daughter Jaye and her family.

I'm always pleased to visit the Blair home. Tucked away on a gravel road, hidden from the hubbub of the nearby big city, the nearly invisible place invites calm, facilitates real rest. The house itself, remodeled for the most part by daughter Jaye, has a comforting spirit. It just feels good to be there.

From Jaye's kitchen come delicious meals and this Thanksgiving was no exception. The Blairs put on a true old-time Thanksgiving feast that day. The food is surpassed only by the hospitality. The beer and wine never ran low, and Jaye's husband Tim even provided chauffeur service to Mass that weekend. Royal treatment.

I didn't gain any weight, but I don't know why not. On the road to Dyer, we had already treated ourselves to a steak dinner at North Platte Nebraska and another one the next night at Des Moines, Iowa.

At C.K.'s Steakhouse in Des Moines, I succumbed to a fit of nostalgia and took a clandestine tour of the kitchen. The crew was engrossed in preparing Thanksgiving dinner and didn't even notice me as I wandered dreamily through that stainless steel heaven. Heavenly rib eye issues from that kitchen.

The huge dining room is situated on the ground floor of the Mariott Hotel, and the kitchen is a true hotel kitchen much like the cavernous one in which I worked in Sun Valley, Idaho. I was swept away in memories of that long-ago era.

The Interstate is just not my bag. I get no thrill from the competition – angry truck drivers and unknowing, arrogant Audi operators aren't people I hang with comfortably. They endanger me with their bumper-hugging indifference and those no-signal lane swoops. They take the joy out of driving, and make it into a job.

So on the return trip, we chose U.S. 36 across northern Kansas. Ahhh. That's more like it.

Despite a pesky and harsh wind, the drive was beautiful through rolling hills. There were few tailgaters here, unlike everywhere on the interstate. I didn't see any Volvos or BMWs at all. God works in mysterious ways.

Speaking of God.

Near the northeastern Kansas town of Marysville is the tiny farming hamlet of St. Benedict. In St. Benedict is St. Mary's Parish Church, an edifice with a spire reaching 175 feet in the sky.

The church is visible from miles away. Closer looks reveal a school, a monastery, a grotto . . . an establishment so huge and complex as to defy description.

We arrived at St. Benedict at sunset. Even without the benefit of light, the interior of the church is . . . awe inspiring.

A person would have to spend several days there to absorb any credible quantity of the overwhelming detail; statues, paintings, stained glass, gilded furnishings, a huge pipe organ.

It's only a little church on the prairie, but it's a lot more than that, too. It's about 600 miles from Greeley. Naturally we plan to return, possibly as early as next summer. Stay tuned.

A nifty website for the church: http://www.stmarystbenedict.org

-0-

Back to the car. With recent improvements including speed-control, a new and modern carburetor, and state-of-the-art electronic ignition, this vehicle is a dream to drive. It's smooth, quiet, quick, comfortable.

But for the third time during our ownership of it, we are having heater core issues. This is where the heating and defrosting system randomly leaks and fogs up the interior windows. Bummer.

But then, on the face of it, setting off cross-country in a 40-year-old car wouldn't seem like a rational thing to do. Perhaps a little repetitive heater problem is a minor annoyance, not a big deal.

-0-

Thomas Amaducci is the current president of the American Truck Historical Society. He writes a monthly column for "Wheels of Time," the official publication of the ATHS.

In the November/December magazine, Amaducci writes words of advice for owners of antique trucks.

Get those antique trucks "ready for their winter nap," he says. "Remember that antifreeze and oil change before putting your prize possessions away."

Ahem. What this means is that Tom has spent some considerable amount of time and effort to become ATHS President, and he doesn't even understand the demographic of the membership.

Unfortunately, the President views trucks as nothing more than toys. Sad.

My truck, a 1956 Ford F-600, doesn't get the luxury of a "winter nap." My truck will run through the winter helping with "work."

Sure, it's a hobby. It's a hobby that doesn't make much sense. But the truck also works. It hauls landscaping equipment and sand and railroad ties. It hauls brush and limbs and household trash.

It is a "prized possession," as Tom says, but just as much for what it can do as what it represents.

"Winter nap" my aching . . . uh, behind.

-0-

Word of the week:
Swaddle. Can't dig up any Latin or Greek heritage in this rare word. It's from Middle English (swathil) and Anglo Saxon (swaethel).

To swaddle is to wrap in narrow bands of cloth, hence "swaddling clothes."

You'll hear the word during the Christmas season, and you'll wish as I did that you had some swaddling clothes (or duct tape) when you try to embrace either of my great-grandchildren.

Next week's word: Diatribe.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comment section!