The Grand Army Highway (U.S. 6) seems to be a thread in my posts. The road spanned the U.S. from Provincetown, Massachusetts, to the California coast. I was born a few blocks from the highway in Kendallville, Indiana. Before going to grade school I lived in a farmhouse with a front lawn that went up to the highway. I lived a few blocks from the highway after starting school in Wawaka, Indiana. So it seems that Highway 6 is in me — it gave me the first view of the big world.
During my preschool years while living next to the highway, I would climb a narrow staircase using both hands and feet for balance from our living room into the attic. The attic had a window from which I could see the highway. Like most attics, it was dark and musty, filled with cast-off things, also cozy and comfortable. It was my place to withdraw to and look over the highway.
At that time, 1940s and before I-80 was completed, all trucks from Boston, New York and points East going to Chicago took U.S. 6, and, of course, trucks heading East from Chicago went by our place. I would see Navajo, Spector, Humpin’ to Please, Yellow, Freightliner, and Roadway. If I was out on the front lawn I played the age-old game of pumping your arm to get the truckers to pull the cord to toot their horns.
Before taking us back to the attic, I want to lift out several experiences from those days at the Ligonier farmhouse. My Dad farmed for the owner of the farm and we lived in the house as part of the deal. We had a chicken coop. One day I ventured into the coop to gather eggs. When I opened the door and entered the coop a rooster came out of its nest and beat the crap out of me, just flapping his wings all over my head. My career of gathering eggs ended right there!
Another time I rode in a Model A ford down the lane to back fields with my older cousin, Danny. I got a kick out of pulling and pushing the hand choke and making the old car buck and bounce. Danny, the one who got me into the barn BB gun standoff during pest contests (an earlier tale), bounced my buck. He was pissed at my choking pleasure.
The lane I just mentioned once took me to a wheat field. I was lost for a while in the wheat, taller than me. Dad was combining the wheat and spotted my head bobbing around. Otherwise I could have become wheat chaff that day!
The attic — that was just a happening, it was formative. I repeatedly climbed up the ladder to watch the truck traffic. From the comfort of the attic I pondered where they were coming from and where they were going. My mom had two brothers who were long distance truckers. I knew they went to far away places like Laredo, Texas, where uncle Kenny picked up a load of watermelons to haul to Chicago. Uncle George picked up steel in Pittsburgh to take to Milwaukee by way of my highway. At the local truck-stop near our house the truckers rested with meals, pinball machines and conversation. They were intriguing to be around when I visited my aunt, Danny’s Mom, a cook at the truck-stop.
The attic gave me a view of imaginary people and places. From the side of the road in my comfort place and I watched the world go by. Over the years that image of my small self looking out the attic window watching life pass by has returned to me often.
Many times I have sensed the attic view of life. 75 years away from my U.S. 6 attic I am in another attic. The joy of marriage, the comfort of our small home, the security of our neighborhood, the goodness of having enough, the acceptance of aging and death, and just being, give me a quiet, cozy context to watch life happen.
From my current attic home I watch the world go by in its greatness and its darkness. The troubling wars in the Middle East and Ukraine, the House of Representatives debacle, ongoing racism, the real possibility of authoritarian rule, and so many dark themes haunt me. Where is the greatness? In the people who yearn to love and to be loved, who have a deep hope and desire that civility will prevail, and the joy of seeing each day as an opportunity to work for the common good. Sounds so puny — but what more can we wish for?