Into the West -- Third Report
On Thursday the 10th, I awoke to a blustery morning in Mitchell, South Dakota. The wind whistled around my corner room at the Motel 6, and I expected to see a stormy sky when I pulled back the curtains. To my surprise, all looked rather pleasant—gentle sunshine, sky a haze-softened blue. Wind blows almost constantly across these prairies just as it does at the beach. In the parking lot, bikers heading west for the Sturgis rally moved among their shiny bikes, talking and laughing and checking their saddle bags. I showered and dressed and headed out for the Rapid City area, wondering what condition I'd find my uncle's family in—if I found them at all.
The interstate speed limit in South Dakota is 75, so I pushed my car up to that—or just a bit more—and rolled along nicely for 60 miles or so. When both my stomach and my gas tank needed immediate filling, I stopped at one of my favorite places—Chamberlain, South Dakota, a small town that sits on the east bank of the Missouri River. On the little main street, I saw a Curves, which reminded me of my wife, so I gave her a call and then went into the Anchor Grille for brunch.
I had steak and eggs, and as I ate, I looked around at the small late-morning group scattered around through the tables. At one booth, a group of four or five that must have been part of the breakfast or lunch crew sat relaxing and talking, either finishing a shift or waiting for one to begin. These were mostly young—late teens and early twenties. The booth just in front of mine held a woman in her thirties, who sat with her back to me, and opposite her an old, watery-eyed fellow in a red plaid shirt and overalls. I think I heard them tell the waitress that they were headed for his doctor's appointment and were stopping in for some fortification—plates of biscuits and gravy, it looked like. At a table to my left sat two interesting fellows. They sat side by side facing the window looking out on the street, apparently unconcerned about the silly cultural taboo we've developed these days about the distance men should keep from one another. The man on the left wore a straw hat, a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans. I don't know what the style of whiskers he wore would be called, but it was basically like my goatee with the center of the chin shaved clean—or at least shaved to stubble. The man on the right was hatless, gray-haired and clean shaven. He wore a white shirt and gray dress slacks, and when I was leaving sometime later, he was walking up and down the sidewalk talking on a cell phone. The two of them seemed to be talking a good bit about Chamberlain itself. By far the most interesting pair in the Anchor Grille that morning sat in a booth away from the window but near the entrance. The old man—he looked old—arrived first and ordered. Just tea, I think. He wore a cap with a Lynyrd Skynyrd design on it and glasses. His complexion was quite pale, and his long beard was yellowish white. At some point—I missed the arrival—this very white man was joined by a young African-American man of dark complexion, his hair in a little bun at the back of his head. Besides the basic visual contrast these two offered, their communication—if you can call it that—was curious. The young man talked almost non-stop and gestured broadly with hands and arms. I couldn't make out what he was talking about, as they were on the exact opposite side of the room from me. Across the table from this animated talker, the pale man sat absolutely motionless, his eyes apparently fixed on the cup of tea in front of him, his left arm laid on the table between the young man's drink and his own, his right elbow on the table and the right hand held up near his right ear. The two men were still just like that when I left the Anchor Grille and Chamberlain.
I drove back to the interstate and exited again after only a mile to drive over to a large rest area that sits up on the edge of the prairie. This place offers a wonderful view down into the valley cut by the Missouri, a bit of Chamberlain and the arid, rolling landscape on the west bank of the river.
Except for the moment-to-moment changing of the landscape as I moved into the western part of South Dakota, the trip was relatively uneventful. Anxious to get on with learning about my family, I didn't even stop to look at the Badlands up close or to get my free ice water at Wall Drug. Something else influenced my passing these up as well. By this time, day four of the trip, I was missing wife and son and wishing they were with me to share this experience. I just kept driving and arrived at the Box Elder exit, just east of Rapid City, at around 1:30.
Like most things we lose, we find them right where we left them. That's true for people as well. I drove down into Box Elder and, with a little luck, found their mobile home without any difficulty. I drove by a couple of times to be sure of the place, then parked and went to the door. My aunt answered and stood there without recognizing me. I told her who I was, and the reunion was on. I really got lucky. She had suffered some kind of mild upset that morning—it was nothing serious and had passed at this point—and my cousin, who otherwise would have been at work, was there with her. Their disappearance from our lives seems to have been the result of a couple of difficult years they had in 2004 and 2005, perhaps even since 2001. These included illness and accident, work troubles, a changing of telephone service after getting angry at the telephone company, a misplaced letter thought to have been mailed and so on.
When I mentioned I'd wanted to see my uncle's grave in Sturgis—a little town currently hosting some 300,000 bikers—my cousin said we could get in there and out more easily that I'd guessed. So we went and visited the cemetery and then took a turn through the Black Hills. When we got back to my aunt's place, she was ready to go out, so we went to a Chinese restaurant run by a friend of my cousin. I thought I would spend the night with them and cancel my reservations for Chadron, Nebraska, but the girl I spoke to on the telephone said that because of the event in Sturgis, cancellations had to be made a week in advance. So, rather that be overcharged for a room that I didn't even stay in, I left my aunt and cousin about 9:00 Thursday night and headed to Chadron.
The interstate speed limit in South Dakota is 75, so I pushed my car up to that—or just a bit more—and rolled along nicely for 60 miles or so. When both my stomach and my gas tank needed immediate filling, I stopped at one of my favorite places—Chamberlain, South Dakota, a small town that sits on the east bank of the Missouri River. On the little main street, I saw a Curves, which reminded me of my wife, so I gave her a call and then went into the Anchor Grille for brunch.
I had steak and eggs, and as I ate, I looked around at the small late-morning group scattered around through the tables. At one booth, a group of four or five that must have been part of the breakfast or lunch crew sat relaxing and talking, either finishing a shift or waiting for one to begin. These were mostly young—late teens and early twenties. The booth just in front of mine held a woman in her thirties, who sat with her back to me, and opposite her an old, watery-eyed fellow in a red plaid shirt and overalls. I think I heard them tell the waitress that they were headed for his doctor's appointment and were stopping in for some fortification—plates of biscuits and gravy, it looked like. At a table to my left sat two interesting fellows. They sat side by side facing the window looking out on the street, apparently unconcerned about the silly cultural taboo we've developed these days about the distance men should keep from one another. The man on the left wore a straw hat, a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans. I don't know what the style of whiskers he wore would be called, but it was basically like my goatee with the center of the chin shaved clean—or at least shaved to stubble. The man on the right was hatless, gray-haired and clean shaven. He wore a white shirt and gray dress slacks, and when I was leaving sometime later, he was walking up and down the sidewalk talking on a cell phone. The two of them seemed to be talking a good bit about Chamberlain itself. By far the most interesting pair in the Anchor Grille that morning sat in a booth away from the window but near the entrance. The old man—he looked old—arrived first and ordered. Just tea, I think. He wore a cap with a Lynyrd Skynyrd design on it and glasses. His complexion was quite pale, and his long beard was yellowish white. At some point—I missed the arrival—this very white man was joined by a young African-American man of dark complexion, his hair in a little bun at the back of his head. Besides the basic visual contrast these two offered, their communication—if you can call it that—was curious. The young man talked almost non-stop and gestured broadly with hands and arms. I couldn't make out what he was talking about, as they were on the exact opposite side of the room from me. Across the table from this animated talker, the pale man sat absolutely motionless, his eyes apparently fixed on the cup of tea in front of him, his left arm laid on the table between the young man's drink and his own, his right elbow on the table and the right hand held up near his right ear. The two men were still just like that when I left the Anchor Grille and Chamberlain.
I drove back to the interstate and exited again after only a mile to drive over to a large rest area that sits up on the edge of the prairie. This place offers a wonderful view down into the valley cut by the Missouri, a bit of Chamberlain and the arid, rolling landscape on the west bank of the river.
Except for the moment-to-moment changing of the landscape as I moved into the western part of South Dakota, the trip was relatively uneventful. Anxious to get on with learning about my family, I didn't even stop to look at the Badlands up close or to get my free ice water at Wall Drug. Something else influenced my passing these up as well. By this time, day four of the trip, I was missing wife and son and wishing they were with me to share this experience. I just kept driving and arrived at the Box Elder exit, just east of Rapid City, at around 1:30.
Like most things we lose, we find them right where we left them. That's true for people as well. I drove down into Box Elder and, with a little luck, found their mobile home without any difficulty. I drove by a couple of times to be sure of the place, then parked and went to the door. My aunt answered and stood there without recognizing me. I told her who I was, and the reunion was on. I really got lucky. She had suffered some kind of mild upset that morning—it was nothing serious and had passed at this point—and my cousin, who otherwise would have been at work, was there with her. Their disappearance from our lives seems to have been the result of a couple of difficult years they had in 2004 and 2005, perhaps even since 2001. These included illness and accident, work troubles, a changing of telephone service after getting angry at the telephone company, a misplaced letter thought to have been mailed and so on.
When I mentioned I'd wanted to see my uncle's grave in Sturgis—a little town currently hosting some 300,000 bikers—my cousin said we could get in there and out more easily that I'd guessed. So we went and visited the cemetery and then took a turn through the Black Hills. When we got back to my aunt's place, she was ready to go out, so we went to a Chinese restaurant run by a friend of my cousin. I thought I would spend the night with them and cancel my reservations for Chadron, Nebraska, but the girl I spoke to on the telephone said that because of the event in Sturgis, cancellations had to be made a week in advance. So, rather that be overcharged for a room that I didn't even stay in, I left my aunt and cousin about 9:00 Thursday night and headed to Chadron.
posted by mac | 9:40 PM
2 Comments:
Hi Michael,
I am so glad that you found your family. Have a safe trip home, we miss you.
Dennis
Agree with Dennis. Happy that you found your family and that you were able to visit. In Oklahoma now? I talked to your wife (She sat just behind me at the 11 service) on Sunday...she misses you very much, too. Hurry home, but safely hurry home :) Can't wait to see you!
CH
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