Where We Live: Turning 60 on 81

Today, Interstate 81 is leading me from Pennsylvania to Virginia. I don’t know if it’s fitting or tragic that I’m spending my 60th birthday in my aged Suburban driving seven dogs to a field trial.

And traveling south along 81 is like time travel for me. Yes, here is the Pine Grove exit, where my dad would adjust the radio station to an easy-listening station from Harrisburg, as he drove me back to college. Pottsville to Pine Grove was as far as my dad could withstand listening to “my” music, back then a lot of Janis Joplin, a little Jimi Hendrix.

And here is the split that goes to Route 83, which I traveled to and from my first job, driving a Fiat sedan that was so ugly the company never even named the model. It was simply called the 131 Sedan. When that car died, at over 200,000 miles, it went down like a spy plane in an old war-movie scene. I remember that a suspicious fluid began seeping from the radio volume dial, I swiped a finger in it and sampled — uh, oh, oil. Soon the car spewed a thick curl of black smoke from under the hood. I yanked it to the shoulder, jumped out and ran from the car.

Ah, Carlisle. Where my then-husband and I lived in a rented half-double, both of us working, and him working a second job as we struggled to cover our bills and pay off his college loans. I admired his industriousness, right up until that moment when I opened a door I shouldn’t have and learned he didn’t actually have a second job. The thing is, right up until that moment I had liked that Mary person and admired what she’d painted on the back doors of her van, Free Bird.

Shippensburg, and there is the paper products company visible from the Interstate. My college roommates and I worked there during the summers. I was paid on piece work rate, making two different items, Hawaiian leis and Happy Hanukkah banners. We drove to work in my roommate Annie’s 1968 Dodge Dart, starting it by poking a screwdriver into the starter.

The field trial for the dogs is held in southern Virginia, near the North Carolina state line. I’ve left training fields at home filled with snow; at the field trial temperatures are in the 70s. I’m proud of the dogs and their runs. My young dog Homer gets two second-place finishes, and I place his red ribbons on my dash.

Although it is not on my way home, I’ve planned to visit friends in Princeton, West Virginia. I’ve been sleeping in a field for two days, and the dogs and I are filthy and tired. Wayne and Liz wait up for us, and my belated birthday celebration features king crab legs and wine.

It’s sometimes so odd to know that I still feel like the same person who sang along with Janis Joplin, drove a series of clunker cars, married the wrong guy, held many different jobs, tried several hair colors and lived in a bunch of different places. Sometimes when I’m brushing my teeth I’m surprised by the gray-haired lady who has my eyes.

I’ve come to feel that the roads and trails we travel in our lives are symbolic of that big journey each of us is on. We have many stops along our journeys and if we’re very lucky those stops are peopled with wonderful friends. I am newly 60, at a stop along Interstate 81. Here we all are at a table, night falls outside and we could be anywhere, here in the shared warm light we can always find again.