It’s difficult to tell who discovered it first — politicians, advertisers or the mainstream media. All of them make hay by scaring people. Any of us can lose our minds on a steady diet of CNN, for example, whose sponsors warn us of the imminent collapse of our automobiles ($4,000), the threat of missing the boat on signing up for Part C of Medicare, or discussing the exact number of casualties in any disaster, natural or man-made. Politicians represent themselves as the last-ditch defense against the communist menace. The media, led by television and op-ed prognosticators and pundits, predict darkly the dangers awaiting us just beyond our doors if we venture forth for a holiday trip to visit family or friends.
Sometimes they’re right. Christmas of 2022 was a prime example — airline terminals with sprawls of lost luggage scattered everywhere; cars, trucks and buses stranded along snowy, windswept interstates; thousands of canceled flights (my companion and I sat in her living room over Christmas, watched no flights in or out of nearby Logan Airport, and rather brusquely declined to accept a rescheduling through Chicago). Far better to watch the storm from the comfort of a living room with a view of a troubled sea than to spend a night in uncomfortable chairs at O’Hare.
Sometimes they’re wrong. For example: I had plans for a four-day visit to Nahant, Massachusetts, over Thanksgiving. This meant driving the day before the holiday, and returning on Sunday, two days after it. To listen to predictions of millions of Americans struggling in crowded security lines, inching along gridlocked highways, and waiting in hotel rooms for a storm to break, was to consider not going. Not going, however, was not even a consideration here. With all-wheel drive, snow tires, a tank of gas, and the help of my ever-alert terrier, Kiki, I would somehow brave through the muddled masses of humanity and machines. We left before noon Wednesday.
In an email to my waiting hostess, I had hoped the holiday traffic would, as usual, be coming toward me in the opposite lane both ways. No, she answered. You’re thinking of leaf peepers and vacationers. But there are grannies everywhere, which means the traffic’ll be going everywhere. That made sense, unfortunately. With more than my usual trepidation, I launched southward on Interstate 89.
It was as if I’d gotten the old-fashioned highball signal on the railroad: Track open, full speed ahead. A little more traffic than usual, it seemed, but everybody going as fast as they dared, to see Granny. Even Kiki seemed to be in the spirit. At our customary McDonald’s stop in Warner, New Hampshire, she hopped out of the car, ran across the parking lot to the nearest patch of grass, peed, and came running back to be let in while I went inside and did my thing: washroom, senior coffee black, and an apple pie (fastest way to jump the line of folks waiting for larger orders). I bade everyone a happy Thanksgiving, hopped back into Hagar, and rejoined the stream of southbound, high-speed traffic.
I always try to exchange a cheerful greeting with the folks in the toll booths. Imagine what it must be like collecting $1 tolls all day. This time, to my surprise and Kiki’s delight, the collectors were dog-lovers and had treats. I was afraid for a moment that I’d lose her overboard. I-95, when we got there, was crowded, but still running about 80 miles an hour. We hung on, and in almost no time, debouched into Lynn, which is generally stop and go. Not this time; we breezed through streets normally clogged and alive with cars, people and boom boxes, took the second exit out of the roundabout onto the causeway, as Bridget in the dashboard directed, and shortly parked Hagar facing a wide bay with the Boston skyline on the far side.
I’m generally excused from driving duties in Boston. My friend, Bea, drives her little, dark-blue Soul, while I get a chance to look at the village instead of the cars ahead, behind, and beside. Besides, she knows where she’s going. Thanksgiving dinner was in Concord, which is a surprising distance from Boston. Those British regulars had quite a hike to get home to their barracks back in April 1775, especially with, as Longfellow has it, the farmers giving them “ball for ball from behind each fence and farmyard wall.” We had it easier: basking in memories of turkey and apple pie and counting Teslas. Which we walked off next day on a huge, deserted beach, where Kiki zoomed in great, happy circles and chased gulls at the edge of the water. A wonderful getaway for both of us — friends, conversation, reading — and an ending like the beginning — an open, dry road and everybody else, like us, headed home.
Willem Lange is a regular contributor to the Weekend Magazine. He lives in East Montpelier.
Willem Lange is a regular contributor to the Weekend Magazine. He lives in East Montpelier.
