My sister Ellen delighted in road trips. She dubbed them her “magical, musical, mystery tours.” Before taking one, she would spread out a map on the kitchen table and figure out who she could visit. She would couch-surf at the homes of friends and acquaintances, sample local cuisine and take the road less traveled. Once, she nagged me into coming with her and we visited farmers’ markets and cider mills in the lush hills of New York State near the Pennsylvania border, staying with people we knew along the way.
But even though I enjoyed it, the trip was something for which my work life didn’t give me much time. She told me I should find the time. I didn’t. Ellen died in her mid-30s. Yet I have remembered that three-day trip for more than four decades.
My sister would have loved the eclipse that took place this week on April 8. We both took astronomy courses in college. She became far more expert in the constellations than me, good enough to lead public shows at our college planetarium.
Months ago, I learned that northern New England would experience a total eclipse, with the moon blocking the sun for a few precious minutes. I knew then that it was time for a magical, musical, mystery tour. Even if I went alone.
And I did. Like Ellen, so many years before, I spread out the map of Vermont on the kitchen table. I marked it up with a yellow highlighter, and drew a diagonal line across the state above which the total eclipse would take place. Then I called friends and acquaintances with whom I could visit.
I was determined to experience a total eclipse, with its sudden silence and plunge in temperature, and watch the blanket of night sweep across Vermont’s hills. Mostly I looked forward to the stunning sight of our sun becoming a black star in the sky with its glorious corona. And I did.
But in the process, I learned something more important than astronomy. It was something Ellen tried to tell me all those years ago.
Just wandering around, with no particular goal, can be a very good thing. It’s OK not to have every last hour scheduled. There is a place for being task oriented. But, for God’s sake, not all the time.
I filled the car with gas, put a shovel and kitty litter in the back in case I got stuck on one of Vermont’s famously muddy dirt roads, tossed in a bag of clothes and drove north 250 miles. I avoided highways, admiring the eccentric names of streets: Ice House Lane, Moscow Wood Road, Lightning Ridge, and the one on which my friend Michelle and Bruce live – Hunger Mountain Road. (There’s a story there, somewhere.)
I tasted local coffee and browsed in out-of-the-way bookstores. I bought maple syrup from street venders who swore that their family had, for four generations, extracted the sap from trees every spring. I trusted that the sealed jugs they sold me were authentic and that they weren’t trying to dupe a tourist. (Once home, I tried the sweet liquid and it is delicious.)
I laughed to see a parking lot sign in one municipal downtown that sternly limited parking to EIGHT HOURS. Free, of course. I played classical music as I drove. Fittingly, I listened to The Planets, Opus 32, by Gustav Holst as I wound between the hills of Vermont, past rushing rivers and leaning barns weathered with age. When I finally arrived well within the “band of totality,” Anne Galloway, a kick-ass journalist I met only last year, welcomed me to a family gathering at her farmhouse in East Hardwick, complete with wine, homemade cider and tables groaning with food.
I loved the company, and witnessing the eclipse, but I learned more from the journey than the breathtaking experience of seeing our sun turn into a black star in the sky.
The break was just what I needed; the celestial event was just an excuse. It taught me that I shouldn’t require a once-in-a-lifetime reason to go on my own magical, musical mystery tour. I can just see Ellen’s satisfied smirk now.
Maura, I am envious! You have inspired me to think about a solo road trip soon, accompanied by spirits.
So glad you got your wish, and that your sister rode with you :) Funny how our family members don't really go away, they just change form. Often find myself talking to my folks as I drive, we did a lot of road trips together. I almost never plan my trips...what if something pops up on the way that looks like a road I should take? When I had the ranch, a 5.5 hour drive usually took me at least 7...distractions...stops to make...looking at views...on and on.