On the Road: Eyes on the Midwest

Last week, I packed my car with a tent and sleeping bags, a few clothes and crucial accessories and I hit the road.

There is an exhilaration that comes whenever I set out anywhere, a sense of curiosity and wonder that is awakened just with the mere idea of what I might see elsewhere, what I might encounter, who.

Travel has been a huge spark for me for a long time. I can remember the spray of the ocean on trips to Balboa Beach, California we made from my childhood home in Arizona when there was no breeze at all back home. I can remember the crunch of the snow under my boots as I chased our miniature schnauzer, Lady, across the woods in the White Mountains where we went to ski. A road trip with friends Spring Break of senior year in college cemented the idea that exploration was indeed a thrill as we hit Graceland in Memphis, New Orleans’ French Quarter and great Tex-Mex in Dallas all in one fell swoop.

There is a great power travel has to force you to pay attention. While it’s easy to pass by things at home without looking when you’re so used to seeing them, changing locales for a bit brings new vision and adrenaline.

“What’s that, what’s that?” On a trip, the mind takes in even things it is used to seeing –the sky, maybe, or the cars on the road—as if they are foreign.

I had a plan when I set out last week to drive to Chicago.

I stopped for gas and lunch in Sharon, Pennsylvania rather than in one of the many Service Areas along I-80. Even though it takes a bit more time, I feel like it’s important to take these little detours instead of bypassing communities at full speed.

As I drove along the road toward a restaurant I’d Googled, I took in all the manufacturing plants—Sunbelt Transformer, American Industries, Sharon Tube Co. I saw the local United Steelworkers Union and the American Legion.

I crossed back and forth across the train tracks trying to find the spot I’d located online, only to discover it was a small dark bar. I opted instead for Donna’s Diner, a shiny silver airstream right on the Shenango River Lake. I always love to be on the water.

As I sat waiting for my chicken salad at the counter, I Googled “Sharon, PA” and the 50s music and theme of Donna’s seemed apropos. The year 1950 was the height of the town’s population, when a total of 26,454 people lived there. Now, with manufacturing jobs down, numbers hover around 13,000, back to turn-of-the-century levels. These are mostly white people - 86%, most with European backgrounds, the largest number of them - 21% - of German descent. Median household income nears $27,000, with about 18% falling under the poverty line. CityofSharon.net unearthed a Sharon Neighborhood Revitalization Committee Blight and Code Enforcement Task Force that is trying to address the “Lack of pride” and “Poor physical condition of many properties” and the “large number of vacant properties” in the town.

This is the America I hear about, the people who were happy to embrace a leader who promised them change. I wanted to start a political conversation, but I shied away. Next time maybe, when I come back. There are three K-6 elementary schools here I could reach out to for InspireCorps programming.

Meanwhile, my sandwich was excellent and cheap, the locals friendly, and I was off again. I’d set my sights on making it to Port Clinton, Ohio and had found a campsite to stay for the night. Headed there, though, I took a detour toward Marblehead, which promised a lighthouse and sites along Lake Erie. As the sun began to lower in the sky, I found a campsite at East Harbor State Park and set up my tent on the banks of the Erie. It is amazing to see the number of people who travel this way, with their campers and RVs, with elaborate tent setups, who light upon these beautiful spots and stay a while, one night or many. I dined on ham and cheese sandwiches with pickles and pretzels, all purchased at the camp store. Note to self: be more prepared with food. Learn to build a fire!

I woke up in the morning to the rain my tent neighbor had warned me of. I packed up amidst the drizzle, stopped to appreciate the sun rising beyond the trees on the banks of the water, and went on my way. I hit a series of heavy rainstorms on my way in to Chicago. It was dark upon arrival into the Windy City, but the rain had abated.

I’ve lived in Chicago, during college at Northwestern in suburban Evanston, and for years afterward on the North side of the city. I was married here. I learned to cook here, and set up a house. That was decades ago now, and I look around with fresh eyes. It is always with fresh eyes that we see things we have been away from. I try to explain to people who ask where I’m from how New York and Chicago differ. I examine the people and their manner of dress. I look at the restaurants right down to their portion sizes and their bathrooms. What is it? It is larger and cleaner, more belted and ironed, at least in the area where my mother lives just off North Michigan Avenue. But I am loathe to stereotype as there are so many neighborhoods here I do not get a chance to visit, including those on the South side where many of the 101 shootings—14 of them fatal—happened this past July 4th weekend. Terrible that fear and violence is a reality for so many people.

People use the public lakefront a lot here, playing on the beach, biking and running along the paths. We got the chance to take an Extreme boat ride out on Lake Michigan to view the city from a watery distance.

I will continue on my journey to Wisconsin. We have plans to visit a friend in Madison and spend a couple days in Lac du Flambeau among the Ojibwa Native American tribe. We will travel across Lake Michigan on a ferry, and find a campsite on its shores on the Michigan side before heading back into Ohio (maybe a trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame will be possible) and home. I can feel my heart beat faster at the thought of my travels and what I will see, as always.