Not At Home In Indiana

Illinois Crossing

They don't need me in Kansas City where my mother-in-law is recuperates from a stroke and other ailments. When my wife decides to return home, the travel options are considered and a train to St. Louis wins her business. I will pick her up at the Amtrak Station and drive her back home to Indiana.

Fonder after her long absence, (tho we've been pretty fond for the last 50 years on average) I start out for the downtown St. Louis Station. Satellite radio blaring, I start out at least 1 hour early and transverse the state of Illinois squinting into the sun the whole way.

Disembodied voices surround me in the Pontiac and fill my head with pre-election notions about an Arab Prince and his judgments, about the judgments of the voices themselves and about the very fact that they are discussing what they are discussing when they are (which is now). This domestic intrigue does not seem to fit the images of just picked corn fields that pass my windows and it is a little crazy making. A stop for gas goes with the warning that it may contain more than 10 percent alcohol but I have faith that my General Motors fuel injectors will sense that and adjust. Converting a high performance engine to run on "fuel" instead of "gas" was quite a task 50 years ago and took amateur mechanics all morning to perform at the Terre Haute Drag Strip one Sunday sunday sunday. Once completed, it was the only car in its class and only had to attain the speed of 60mph in the .25 mile to claim a trophy. It was Jimmy Kellums and Walt Pygman slaving away on a 46 Ford Ragtop to make the conversion. They got their win, I think I remember right, but not on the first try and the sputtering Ragtop made me want to lean forward in my seat as if to help Jimmy toward the finish.

Driving alone in the country brings old memories like that back to me once the political accusations and defenses fade into background chatter. Speeding or slowing to avoid the clumps of cars and trucks that collect on the paved stream occupies a third thread. In computer terms, we multi-process as drivers and the fact that my fellow travelers are doing the same makes me wonder that the accident rate is at an acceptable rate (or is that something they are chattering about on another station?).

With my map securely folded and tucked into the glove box, I drive right to (I-70, I-55, I-64/US40) Market Street and to the Union Station. I've been here before in about 1958 and it seems to have been restored. It has everything. People are laughing and loving in the parking lot. Couples, Families, groups of teens. I walk past the signs that point to Hard Rock Cafe entrance, I pass a reflective pool and see fast foods and tourist shops on three levels inside the station. An information desk looks like an Airport traveler's aid stand. I have begun to suspect that Amtrak would not pay the rent required at this downtown pleasure mall. My eye catches a sign pointing to Hooters and I'm sure that there is no actual train station in this theme park but I ask anyway and am told that I'm 6 blocks off (courteously ignoring the temporal displacement).

The path from St. Louis Union Station (an homage to the great past of passenger rail) to the present Amtrak passenger depot takes me about 6 blocks. It skirts the edge of a giant sports palace that is open for business as I pass and I'm lucky that the hordes are within and not clogging the streets with their coming or going. A tiny sign points the way to the Amtrak and the road becomes less smooth. Smiling yuppies and their kids and pets do not flock to this neighborhood of warehouses and trucks. The road, if paved at all, needs great repair and one must dodge giant mail trucks jockeying for position at a mail transfer center.

A pencil thin man in a dark suit and stingy brimmed hat turns his face away from the light and drinks from a large bottle poorly concealed inside a small brown paper bag. He tucks his deception away Wily Coyote style so that no bulge shows and walks as if stumbling down hill toward the temporary structure that is the Amtrak Station.

I follow and look for a place to park amongst aging cars on a poor lot. A check of the board tells me that the train will come in a few minutes from Kansas City. Its few passengers will be replaced by the few waiting here and they will swap places with some folks going from Chicago to somewhere and so on. Some are off on great life changing adventures, some move from one place where they aren't wanted to another, some will do their duties someplace and, like my dear lady, come home to rest.

Judy, wheeled bag in tow, searches the crowd for me to take her home. She's been caring for every need of her stroke victim mother for weeks and needs a rest. I can see that she hasn't been caring for herself. Somehow, that endears me more to her than if she had hopped off the train perfectly coiffed with full make-up applied. I'd like to see her with her 40 year ago shape once again but I suppose she'd like me to lose this pot and grow back some forelocks too.

I'm glad to have her with me again. We drive across the Illinois darkness and listen to Gram Parsons and Emmy Lou duets as if for the first time.

She will rest and sleep as long as she likes today and it gives me a chance to write this.

posted by Syc2 @ 9:43 AM