My dad's family is from Minnesota - it's where I spent my summers at my family cabin (literally a log cabin in the Mille Lacs lake area ("Thousand Lakes" to us anglophones). I've got a couple days off, so I'm hoping to visit my aunt and, if there's time, the family cottage. Both turn out to be strange reunions... and both journeys involve getting lost many times.
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Kansas city: The next morning I say goodbye to Betsy and head out, stopping at a local music store, but finding nothing really of interest - then, realizing I forgot a book at Betsy's, heading back there, and saying goodbye again. A useful morning.
I drive back North. No show today. I'm just working on getting to Minneapolis. In two days I've hit 6 states, breaking my border crossing record. In Canada, crossing provinces feels like a big deal - often the whole geography of the place changes, from rolling hills to prairies, or from prairies to mountain ranges. Either way, it's clearly evident that you are in a new place. America, on the other hand, seems segmented at random. I didn't even notice that yesterday I was in Nebraska. And today, I sail through Iowa without batting an eye. Maybe I've gotten desensitized to everything, but whereas before, the journey was more important, now the destination is driving me and it makes the spaces inbetween feel looooooooong.
I'm writing this several days later and honestly, I feel bad, because I have no memory of Iowa. Or really of Minnesota. I spend most of the time feeling lost. I keep waiting for that moment where my childhood memory will kick in spontaneously, but it doesn't happen.
Looking online later, I realize I've missed a lot - I wish I'd seen the cool "giant spoon with cherry" bridge. It would have capped off nicely my "giant things" collection (goose, moose, teepees, nickel, loonie, etc.).
Like Kansas City, Minneapolis is a twin city - together with St. Paul, Minnesota's capitol, they combine to form one massive amount of roads and confusion for hapless indie musician visitors. My biggest beef is that they both have similar road names, so as a totally random example, if you were to get off the highway (finally) drive to a hotel, get a map, and ask the guy at the front desk, where X street is - he'd ask you "which city?" Then you'd guess, and head into the centre of, yes, the wrong city and have to work your way out. This doesn't happen in Toronto.
Anyway, I get in and find my way to Ron's place - Ron is a friend of my other aunt, Maggie, whom I'm visiting (but who is in the hospital right now). Ron's agreed to put me up - he's a real nice fellow with a very deep voice - maybe from smoking? Everyone in my dad's family smokes and their coughing illustrates the damage done. Not just due to smoking, Ron's had many heart attacks and a stroke and sports a long scar along the center of his chest, where he had surgery. But he seems to be living much healthier now and is a pleasure to chat with. Still, after 8 hours in the car, I'm pretty beat. We phone Maggie at the hospital and agree to meet her the next day. Then I sleep like a rock.
The next day, with some time in the morning (Ron wanted to wait until noon to see my Aunt) I clean out my car. Imagine packing a college kid's room into a small VW bug and you'll understand what this looks like. My gracious hosts keep apologizing for small messes and I keep responding "you should see my car!" Anyway, today, I'll be driving Ron to visit Maggie at the hospital, so I need to make it into a 2-person vehicle again. It's actually a relief to reorganize everything. (Rent-a-wreck sponsors, take note - it's ALL CLEAN and PRISTINE now! It was just... um... a bit disorganized... =).
Ron decides not to come, so I head over to the hospital - getting lost on the way there and getting lost in the hospital. I finally find Maggie, who is still her feisty self, arguing with a doctor about whether she should be moved (to be fair, the doctor was being kind of a jerk). Turns out the Maggie's just been released from the hospital (she was there for breathing problems (see "smoking" above...)).
Maggie leaving the hospital means that Ron has to drive her car back to her house, where one of her roomates can get it and come to the hospital to pick her up, and that I have to drive to her house to pick up Ron and get him back to his house. You know what? Don't ask. It's too confusing.
Anyway, it was great to see Maggie. She still has one of my favourite laughs in the world and, like her sister Betsy and my Dad (and my Aunty Kay, before she passed away) has a great sense of humour, even in the middle of distressing events.
I do, on the other hand, want to get up the cabin. I haven't been there in years and it's a good 2-3 hours away. It's now 3pm and I boot it up north. Surprisingly, I get lost again. And my cell phone starts threatening to die. And it's suddenly night. And, as my friend Sam would say, "it's cold and there are wolves."
I keep expecting to see Pine Center, a two or three building intersection that calls itself a town - and which I remember quite clearly, but when I finally get there, I find that all three buildings have been completely changed - eliminating all chance I have of navigating by memory. I drive East. I drive West. I drive South. This takes a long time and I'm in a wonderful mood. I come back to Pine Center and stop in the bar there (one of the three buildings). My cabin is on a lake called Camp Lake, which according to the bartender, there are several roads to. Great. She draws me a picture and I leave again, determined but desperate.
Before you ask, yes, I got directions from Maggie - but I apparently missed a turnoff somehow because I've approached everything from a different direction. Anyway, more driving around in the dark. I use up my last cell phone life line and phone Maggie who gives me the final piece of information - getting me to an old dirt road with signs of the family cabin owners - including, "HEIN."
Down a long dirt road, through the darkness - it's like peering into your past with a flashlight, illuminating old musty memories. There's the doctor's property with the chain across the driveway. There's the neighbour's place where their grandaughter, Amy, and I used to play Atari 2600 (dating myself there...). There are deers prancing along the road - no one comes here in November, so they've got the run of the place and are as surprised to see me as I am to see them. And there, in the dark, is the sign that marks the driveway to my cabin.
This cabin was made by my great grandfather Dave Hein (who I think I was named after). It's old, is heated by a wood stove, and doesn't have a shower, but it's on a beautiful lake and there's something comforting about generations of family using the same small space - filling it with old monopoly boards, comics, posters, and blankets - accumulating layers of history.
Unfortunately, with Maggie getting sick, it hasn't been kept up well and it could use a good cleaning. There's some signs of mice, but not as much as I thought. I set the car headlights to shine in through the front door and, taking the flashlight that I bought at a gas station, I explore.
Like in Saskatoon, everything's familiar - but compacted into a smaller space. I take a lot of pictures. In the dark, the lights bounce around reflecting eerily off the windows and mirrors, freaking me out a bit. This feels like the start of a horror movie - and without a working cell phone, or anyone with me... I wonder if there are still bears in these woods. The deer heads on the walls, hunted decades ago by my namesake, should make it creepier, but they are old friends who I made my peace with long ago.
Maybe it's the darkness or the 18 years since I've been here, but I feel detached from everything a bit. I've been reading Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" (yes, I'm still reading it - when you're driving and playing there's not much time for reading). In one recent chapter he talks about how our cells regenerate - so that every 10 years or so, your body is made completely of different cells - you're essentially an entirely different body from the one you were 10 years ago - a different person. That's what I feel like here.
Under the army bunk bed on the porch, where I used to sleep, I find some old toys and a box of comics. And finally, I find something to connect to. I'm still that kid, lying awake, reading old Tarzan comics that another relative left there from years before, and stocking that comic box with new issues begged for from the small store in Pine Center.
I take the box - at this point, Mice will just eat the comics - and I close up the cabin. I stand in the darkness, staring out at the trees, down to the lake and say goodbye.
I get back very late - losing my way and accidentally heading into Minneapolis instead of St. Paul. Stupid twin cities. I stop at Maggie's to see how she's doing and to say goodbye to her. We hang out with her assortment of cats and dogs - all lovely and thrilled to see her back at home. I'm happy that I saw the cabin, but more important was reconnecting with my aunts.
Back at Ron's, I fall asleep, looking forward to Chicago - where I play at the legendary Elbow Room and where Irene flies in to meet me.
