<< Back 7/31/02 A road-weary traveler finds peace — in the driveway By John Beckman Summer brings warm sunshine, closed schools, long days and plenty of good reasons for Americans to get out and travel. Over the past month a dozen reasons fell in my lap for me to head up to Lake Erie and the town where I was born. As one event after another piled onto the calendar for the weekend of July 13, I found myself set up for a marathon before I even left. A few months ago I received a notice of the Westfield Academy Class of 1977 celebrating our 25th high school reunion which I thought would be kind of fun. A week later a call came from my folks that my sister and her kids from Louisiana were coming in, as were my brother and his family from Boston, and wouldn’t I like to come up too. My brother called a few days later and hatched his plan for a surprise party for my parents 50th wedding anniversary on that Saturday. My grandmother had recently turned 95, and my great friend and teacher for the past 30 years had just celebrated his 80th birthday in May. Despite my busy schedule here, there was no excuse good enough not to be there. I had been putting off the visit because of projects I had going at the farm, with work and many meetings and a general lack of spare time or money for travel, but the signs couldn’t have been much more obvious. One way or another I was going to the “old home town” to be with those of my past. For better, for worse, for the weekend at least. My pilot friend had mentioned he might be flying that way on a trip of his own and could drop me off on route. I grinned at the idea of showing up in town in a private plane for the events, playing the part of the big shot, and at not having to make the 680-mile drive each way. Mechanical problems at the last minute nixed any air travel plans, so I reluctantly climbed into my 1985 pickup at 5 p.m. and headed north. A lot of thoughts pass through your mind during a 13-hour drive with no radio, books on tape or other passengers. The unfinished projects at the farm, old unresolved family matters and curiosities of what ever became of the faces of my youth swam through my head as I burned up one stretch of highway after another. I arrived the next day a little road-ragged but resolved to cram everything into the 48 hours I had allowed myself for this homecoming. It didn’t take long for the itinerary to unfold as one visit led to the next with another appointment looming just a little further across the face of the clock. I pulled into town and stopped on Main Street, having three chance encounters before making it to my first scheduled stop to get champagne for my visit with grandma. Familiar faces, though somewhat weathered and aged, began to appear at every turn. I made it to the reunion cookout and found my classmates living scattered across the country and even one raising their children in Costa Rica. They had become teachers, pilots, bankers, welders and a few had even become grandparents. We laughed about how some had changed and some had not, and how some could be identified only by the facial features of their kids. It was my turn to use some of those corny lines adults used to use on me, the ones I thought were so stupid and insulting at the time. From there it was off to the local watering hole for a long series of five-minute conversations, recollecting the past 25 years with other friends from other classes amidst the loud music and thick smoke until the 2 a.m. closing time and the wobbly walk home to my parents house and my old bedroom. The next day brought events with my five siblings and their 13 children, a tour of the town’s history through photographs at the library, more chance encounters, more drinks with friends, a long-awaited chat over wine with my aging mentor, a nostalgic walk along the lakeshore and the dinner party secretly arranged for my folks, an intimate affair for 27 guests with its customary uproar. After the meal, cake, stories and a poem, a friend and I appointed my brother as the designated driver to the next party with even more old friends and instruments at Chautauqua Lake in the next town over. We sang old tunes, gossiped about those absent, talked about plans for getting together in the future, emptied more bottles and said good-bye until next year. After another cherished morning talk with my mentor, a brief appearance at the town’s annual picnic, a dozen more short catch-up conversations and good-bye hugs, I crawled back into the truck for the 13-hour drive back to North Carolina. I stopped in West Virginia to recuperate and spend the evening with a college buddy and his family, talking about the past and our dreams for the future. As I pulled back into my gravel driveway the next day and wound my way along the creek up to the farm, a peace filled me that had been absent for the past four days during my frenzied journey. If home is where the heart is, then when I talk about home I’ll not be referring to the place of my youth. You’ll hear me speak of mountains, of my great friends in Western North Carolina and the beautiful life that happens to me here in the hills of southern Appalachia. John Beckman is a builder, organic farmer and operations manager at Unahwi Ridge Community in Jackson County. He can be reached at www.unahwiridge.com.