When you live around here, you get really good at licking those little drips of ice cream off the side of the cone right before they get your hand all sticky. Most of the time I'm glad I live around here; even when I get stuck behind a tractor on the one and a half lane road that gets me (more or less) to the highway every day (more or less). Today I'm glad I live 'round here because my arms are still sore from waxing the machine, and I'd really hate to have to do a touch up because of a smattering of ice-creamy finger prints.

I kind of half-chew that last bit of soggy cone, and that's it. Polly's Freeze is the very last of civilization that I'll see for the next three consecutive days. I pocket the napkin I'd been writing on and ready a new one that I set aside specifically for the purpose of preserving my wax job as I open my car door, and now I'm wondering why I even bothered if I'm just going to ruin that whole clean car effect on the gravel roads anyway. But that's how it goes around here. You either get used to the commute, or you rent about a thousand square feet in the city for five hundred a month. (More or less.)

The drive out to Harrison-Crawford State Forest is just about as nice as the weekend in the woods, I’m thinking. Mostly, because I get to provide the soundtrack. Today I’m in a Turandot kind of mood. The flowers by the roadside blur into a medium orange aria. I’m trying to think if they are all native to Indiana, or if they might have invaded the medians from some far-off Asian port under the rule of an embittered Princess…See? I can rattle off the plot summaries of half a dozen operas at will; but that’s hardly knowledge at all in farm country, at least that’s what my grandpa says. He could tell you which flowers were native. My grandpa could name you every single weed in a five state radius, if you asked him. And my mom could tell you if they are edible or have any medicinal uses. Every once in a while, I wish I had their brand of wisdom.

Where I’m headed, shiny new paint jobs and all the arias in the world aren’t going to amount to a pebble in a pissing pot. At least that’s what my grandpa told me early this morning over a chorus of lawnmowers. I swear some mornings, every single piece of lawn equipment is up and running in the four-mile stretch that is Crandall long before I even thought about waking. Mornings like this one, it’s more than good to get away. Yes, sir! The only thing gonna keep me from sleeping till noon out here is the sun baking me through the rip-stop nylon roof.

It’s an equilibrium of contradiction, nearly flying down the old two-way listening to a language I can’t even identify, let alone understand…and yet I have a memory of the meaning of it. And in this same moment, I’m getting kind of excited about that “tent smell”. Musty, but new. Artificial, and yet earthy. It’s the smell of almost home. It enforces the illusion that a scant casing of fabric can be sturdy. The smell envelops you. And even when the only thing separating you from torrential downpour is a couple of thin layers of water-resistant fabric, that tent smell always wins over the smell of rain.

And the smell of rain always wins over a mix of clean car smell and that sweet tang of the A/C. Right. I was so caught up with the roadside scenery, that I barely noticed a sky full of weekend-wrecking storm clouds. And I’m starting to think now would be a good time to…close the sunroof. By the time my hands catch up with my thinking, I feel like I’ve just taken a warm shower with my clothes on. I scramble: fumble with the wipers; fish that napkin out of my pocket to start drying off the leather; pull a U-turn. That last bit was just enough exertion to remind me of the hours I’d spent waxing the day before.

I sulk the whole drive back to town. Car’s going to need washed again tomorrow, and now the leather ought to be conditioned, too. My weekend’s utterly shot. And not just that, but the day before was a big fat waste of quality time with my Oldsmobile.

I pass by Polly’s at a slow crawl. It was one of those summer rains that sneak up on you and beat the hell out of visibility for an hour or so. But from what I can tell, business is still good. There’s an old 60-something Mustang parked out front by the Pick-Up Window. I refuse, in this moment, to revive my hatred for Mustangs. Instead, I simply enjoy the view.

The thing you have to understand about Polly’s is that it’s an institution, a real landmark, been around since before that Mustang was even a concept car. Another old unidentifiable antique edges into the next parking spot. I have to smile. Turandot, and the smell of wet leather, and I’m looking out my window at a living history. And it’s almost like globalization never happened.

And that’s kind of the only thing I wanted to get out of this weekend anyway, just a few minutes where I can pretend that there isn’t a giant hole in the ozone. When I can at least imagine remembering when the Mustang was an actual performance car and not a plastic wanna-be cliché. When a unique place like Polly’s was the place to go for a sundae on Sunday, instead of a franchised Dairy Queen with a tacky red roof just like any other in the country.

I wanted to escape for a little bit from development, progress, subdivision. And I did.

06/24/2003

Author's Note:
Written in response to criteria set as follows:
Short story 500-700 lines about a camping adventure.

Posted on 06/25/2003
Copyright © 2024 Lacy D Phillips