The Hamster and the Highway

Go to bed in Minneapolis,
Wake up in PA.
Pack your roll, your brush, and your comb again,
Ready to roam again, ready to stray
When the circus comes your way.
                                                             —”Join the Circus”

When I was in second grade, my class put on a circus to celebrate the school’s 25th anniversary, and we all sang the above song during the performance. It comes to mind now not because The Hamster and I went to a circus today but because we woke up in New York and are going to bed in PA. It’s been a fun but very long day.

Instead of heading straight to Niagara Falls first thing this morning, I acquiesced to Sam’s request to borrow fishing rods from the motel, and we went fishing in Lake Otsego off the motel’s pier. Well, Sam went fishing. I was assigned the unglamorous job of baiting his hook with the live worms we bought in the motel office for $2. (There’s something to love—and fear—about a motel that sells live worms in its office.) He didn’t catch anything but the lake was so clear that we were able to watch as fish after fish ate the worms off his hook and swam away.

The next stop was a local grocery where I picked up a toothbrush for Sam to replace the one he left at camp, and a post office to mail the first of what I hope will be a series of 36 postcards (one each day) that we’ll be sending to Abby from the places we visit.

And then, driving. Lots of driving. After driving for about a half hour, my GPS looked like this:

That little green box in the upper-right corner says we’ve got 193 miles to go until the next turn. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I can tell you that the road to Niagara Falls is smoothed over considerably with a bag full of child-friendly car activities. Once the scenery became monotonous and Sam ran out of things to tell me about camp, he dug into his backpack for some of the entertainment I packed him. He spent a little time with the books of kids games and activties, but the big winner today was the portable DVD player and the copy of “Rudy” that I packed to get him excited about our visit to the University of Notre Dame.

Eventually, we made it to Niagara Falls. Somewhere along the way, we stopped to make and eat sandwiches at a rest stop, fully christening this an official road trip.

The plan at Niagara Falls was to walk around on the American side, then walk over Rainbow Bridge to the Canadian side, and then come back to America for the Maid of the Mist boat tour. Rainbow Bridge didn’t work out because I forgot to bring our passports so we couldn’t cross. The boat ride didn’t work out because The Hamster decided that, despite having enjoyed a week-long cruise just a couple of years ago, he is afraid of boats. But we still got some great views of the Falls, thanks in part to the bargain of the day: $1 each to use the Maid of the Mist’s observation deck and take their elevator down to the bottom of the Falls. Hamstie was wowed by the enormity of the falls, and by the relative calm of the water just a few yards past the falls. He had a lot more to say, too, which I captured on video and hope to post tomorrow.

By the time we left Niagara it was dinner time and we were hungry, but we had a very important stop to make before dark, so we had a quick snack (the back seat of our car is literally filled with food and drink) and hit the road again, headed southwest to the tiny town of Westfield, NY.

If you don’t already know the story of Grace Bedell, the 11-year-old girl who convinced Abraham Lincoln to grow a beard during his campaign for the presidency, do yourself a favor and click the link. Anyway, Grace lived in Westfield, and several years ago the town finally honored her unusual friendship with Lincoln by installing an outdoor statue of their meeting. It so happens that Westfield is literally on the way from Niagara Falls to our next stop, Canton, OH. And since Sam learned about Grace in school and I am endlessly fascinated by all things Abraham Lincoln, going to see the statue was a no-brainer.

The takeaways:
1) Abraham Lincoln was hella tall.
2) Top hats rock.
3) Sam really enjoys taking silly pictures.

We left Westfield at about 8 badly in need of nourishment. The plan for dinner tonight was that we would find a rest stop somewhere and cook burgers on our tabletop propane grill. (As a side note, that grill might be the best $30 I ever spent, even before this trip). It wasn’t long before we found the perfect place: just over the state border, the Pennsylvania Welcome Center: a wayyyyy-too-nice rest stop with a beautiful picnic area that was completely empty when we got there. Great weather, great scenery, and great burgers were a perfect, relaxing way to end an exhausting day.

A few exits down I90 later we found a Travelodge with a shockingly beautiful lobby and not-at-all-shockingly drab rooms. But it was late, and we were tired, and for $70 we got beds, A/C, wi-fi, and even an indoor pool, which should be refreshing in the morning before the long drive to Canton for the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

So there you have it. Wednesday we woke up in New York but by noon on Thursday we’ll be in Ohio.

Climb aboard before it moves on
And you’ll thank your lucky stars you did.

Despite my enthusiasm this morning, Day 1 didn’t start out quite as well as I’d hoped. There was massive traffic for the first hour and a half, which should have taken 40 minutes. After another hour or so I realized that my GPS had sent me on a horribly roundabout route. By the time I righted the ship I was about 2.5 hours behind schedule.

But traffic cleared up, I eventually found my way, and my kids were tanned, dressed in real clothes, and as happy to see me as I was to see them. After a too-brief visit with Abby, I somehow found room in the already overpacked car for Sam’s giant duffel bag, and he and I were off.

For an hour, I didn’t even put the radio on; I just listened as The Hamster regaled me with tales of his two-week foray into sleepaway camp that were alternatingly funny, interesting, and horrifying. Late-night bunk parties, frogs captured and cared for, attacks from the resident psycho kid, new nicknames earned, freaky things noticed on nature walks, bracelets made in arts and crafts, and a general dearth of sleep, manners, and personal hygiene acceptable nowhere but within the boundaries of summer camp.

Before I knew it we were in Cooperstown, where I found first a reasonably priced gas station (badly needed by that point) and then a free parking spot a block away from the Baseball Hall of Fame. The day had officially turned in our favor.

Once inside I allowed Sam to set the pace and he zipped through the museum, partly because a lot of the exhibits on display right now are not of great interest to a not-quite 10-year-old, and partly because he was exhausted (See: late-night bunk parties and lack of sleep). But when it came to the Hall itself, adorned only with the bronze plaques of all the inductees, we lingered.

I love that room. This was my third time there and it was just as awe-inspiring as the first time. Even better, Sam loved it. He looked at every plaque, checking for players he’d heard of (he counted exactly 40). He was especially excited to see the plaque for Alexander Cartwright, known as the Father of Modern Baseball and in whose honor Sam got his middle name, Alexander.

After what seemed like approximately six hours in the gift shop we left, briefly stumbling upon a free outdoor jazz concert before heading to tonight’s “home”: the Lake View Motel, a dated but clean motel extremely well situated about 6 miles from the Hall of Fame and right on the edge of Lake Otsego, with beautiful views of the lake and the mountains that surround it. Finishing out the baseball-filled day, we grilled hot dogs for dinner at a little hilltop picnic area behind the motel, enjoyed the view and the perfect evening weather, and then headed inside to watch the All-Star Game until Sam fell asleep.

Even including the disaster of a morning, the day turned out to be supremely enjoyable.

Surprisingly, though, the best (and worst) part of the day was probably when Sam noticed Ozzie Smith’s plaque in the Hall of Fame.

Sam: “Ozzie Smith? Isn’t he a rock star?”

Me: “No, that’s Ozzy Osbourne.”

Sam: “Oh yeah.”

You know those ugly return-address labels that charities are always sending you in the mail along with requests for donations? A few months ago I got one of those envelopes from the Sierra Club, but instead of return-address labels they sent me a U.S. map. At the time, plans for this road trip were just taking shape and I wasn’t even sure it was going to work out. But The Hamster was already so excited for the trip that he asked me if he could keep the map, and if I could show him where we would be going.

We taped the map to his bedroom wall, right above his bed, and for weeks as I began working out the parameters of the trip and solidifying details he continued begging me to draw out our route on his map. Eventually I worked out dates and a rough itinerary, and Sam watched intently as I drew it in on his map. And just about every night since, after he brushed his teeth and got into bed (or just got into bed after falsely claiming to have brushed his teeth), he and I would stare at his map, laugh about some of the funnier-named cities (I’m looking at you, Arkadelphia, Arkansas), and talk about the places we’re going to visit and the things we’ll see. As I would do more research and nail down more details, I would reveal planned activities to him during our bedtime mapgazing, each new nugget of information like a little gift about which he’d get excited and ask endless questions.

Those questions! Brilliant, insightful, blatantly obvious, occassionally irrelevant questions like only kids think to ask. How did they decide which presidents to put on Mount Rushmore? Why is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland? How do they know when Old Faithful is going to erupt? Can we buy some potatoes in Idaho? Do they sell Wrigley gum at Wrigley Field? Can we bring one of those big barrels of pretzels from Costco to snack on in the car?

I should probably stop having these discussions with him while he’s hungry.

Anyway, saying that The Hamster and I are excited for this trip is like saying that Geico can save you 15% on your car insurance. We’ve been talking about this trip for months as something great that will happen in the future. And now it’s finally here. And I’m terrified.

OK, “terrified” is a bit of an exaggeration. Mostly, I’m thrilled. I’m looking forward to the adventure. I absolutely cannot wait to see The Hamster when I pick him up at camp in a few hours. And I’m even more excited to see his big sister, who goes to the same camp but has chosen to stay there all summer with her friends instead of spending five weeks stuck in a car with two crazy boys.

But I’m also nervous. I’m nervous that I forgot to pack something important. I’m nervous that the driving will wear on me more than I’m expecting it to. That I’ve miscalculated on time and we’ll either have to rush through everything or skip some cool stuff entirely. That the weather will suck everywhere we go. That we’ll have trouble finding kosher food and end up eating a lot more peanut butter than I’m hoping to (no offense to peanut butter, though, which is one of my absolute favorite foods–just not one of my favorite dinners). That Sam won’t enjoy some of the things we do, or worse–that he’ll be bored. Most of all, I’m nervous that this trip we’ve been talking about and planning for months won’t live up to our mapgazing expectations.

OK, enough of that. Nerves be damned, it’s time to hit the road. The car is packed and gassed up. The trip odometer is reset to o.o. I even remembered to pack the big barrel of pretzels from Costco. Today’s itinerary: visiting Abby at camp, grabbing Sam, and then our first real stop: the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. The Hamster and the highway both await.

Here goes something …

My son, Sam, has never been an easy kid. Genetics gave him a large helping of his father’s stubbornness, and we butt heads often. He refuses to do what he’s told. I get too bent out of shape when he refuses to do what he’s told. He doesn’t take my advice. I don’t let him make enough of his own mistakes. We have a lot of stupid fights. And I often feel guilty for not doing a better job as his dad.

When we’re not fighting, though, we’re inserparable. We share hobbies. We watch ballgames together. We read together. We play, we wrestle, we joke around, we dance, and we speak in silly accents. We make up games and ridiculous songs together. Having fun with Sam makes the battles melt away as if they never happened. It makes me think that maybe I’m not doing such a terrible job after all.

Sam also shares my sense of curiosity. Like me, he loves understanding how things work, and building things, and exploring. My wife and daughter prefer relaxing, island vacations. Not us boys. Sam and I, we like to do stuff. We like to go to new places and see new things.

Two summers ago we had a unique opportunity to do just that. I got laid off from my job as a dotcom news editor, and he had two weeks at the beginning of the summer during which his big sister was at sleepaway camp and he hadn’t started day camp yet. So I convened what we called “Camp Sam”: two weeks of father-son bonding, with plenty of adventure mixed in. We spent lots of time at the beach, the public pool, the park next to our house, and the nearest children’s museum. And we took a few trips, too. The first was a two-day road trip to Baltimore. We saw sharks at the National Aquarium, toured Fort McHenry (where Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner), had a cookout, swam in the hotel pool, wandered around the waterfront, checked out the house where Babe Ruth was born (The House that Built Ruth?), and took in an Orioles game. It was two of the best days of both of our lives.

That trip and the two weeks surrounding it were like a miracle elixir for our relationship. We each gained a greater appreciation for the other. We understood each other better. We both wished it could have lasted longer. In a big way, the cross-country trip we’re about to embark on is our attempt to recapture that magic, and to make it last longer.

Still, a five-week road trip is ambitious, even for us. It’s difficult to explain the motivation to spend five weeks in a car exploring America with a not-quite-10-year-old, so I’ll start with Ernest Hemingway. He died 50 years ago last week, and on the anniversary of his death someone sent me an interesting article about Hemingway’s dark final years. Oddly, the one thing that jumped out at me from that article was the fact that, for the last several years of his life, Hemingway lived in Ketchum, Idaho.

Why Ketchum? Despite being a high school English teacher, I’m no expert on Hemingway. But I do know that it’s a gross understatement to say that the man loved an adventure. He had been all over the world. He lived in Castro’s Cuba. He ran with the bulls in Pomplona. He hunted big game in … well, I told you I’m not a Hemingway expert. So what is it about Ketchum, Idaho that made Hemingway say to himself, “This is where I will spend the rest of my life”?

I’ve never been to Idaho, and until last week I had never even heard of Ketchum. So I did some quick research on the InterWebs and found out that Ketchum used to be a mining town. But what really amazed me was the image for Ketchum, Idaho on Google Maps.

Go ahead, look at it: there’s nothing there. Now click to zoom out. Still nothing. Zoom out again.  Still nothing. One more time. Aha! The town is hidden in a geographical nook, almost completely surrounded by Sawtooth National Forest. Now I get it: Hemingway lived in the middle of a giant forest! His final adventure.

Me and The Hamster? We live in an air-conditioned house in a quiet suburb. We don’t mow our own grass, let alone chop our own firewood or kill our own dinner. We don’t have adventure surrounding us every day. So we invented one. This one.

To clarify, Hemingway and Ketchum are my way of explaining this trip but they’re not the inspiration for the trip–I’ve been planning it for months and toying with the idea for a year or so, and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what the inspiration might have been or when and why I first hubristically thought this would be a good idea. We’re not even going to Ketchum on this trip. You’re disappointed. Me too, a little. But Ketchum itself isn’t really the point. We live in a country full of adventure. There are tiny, adorably named towns tucked in the nook of a massive forest, and there are huge, teeming cities with skyscrapers and complex underground train systems. Places that stay over 100 degrees Fahrenheit all summer, and places that still have snow on the ground in July. Dirt roads and six-lane highways. Mountains, oceans, forests, farms, caves, rivers, and volcanos. Earthquakes, tornados, wildfires, floods, and stock market crashes. Regional accents and dialects as varied as the regional cuisine. I’ve seen some of it. I’ve been to most of the big cities and I’ve driven past a fair amount of the farms. But there’s so much I haven’t seen.

I’ve actually wanted to take a trip like this for years. But I never had the opportunity and I’ve never had a buddy who was available and willing to go with me. This summer I’ve got both. The Hamster’s finally at an age when he can really appreciate and remember a trip like this. Next year he might want to go to sleepaway camp for the whole summer, or I might be teaching summer school, or gas might cost $7 a gallon, or any of a hundred other things can happen that would make this sort of adventure impossible. So we’re seizing the opportunity while it’s here. I think Hemingway would be proud. Then again, he might be pissed off that we’re not visiting his old house in Ketchum.