Livestrong

Seven hours south of Detroit sits a little Victorian town surrounded by rich soil, miles of corn fields and family farms. It is also home to a factory that builds turbo chargers and superchargers. It is the bread and butter for many locals as well as the marketing guy from Detroit to whom I am married. It was here that 22 years ago,  I romanticized about living on a small farm, growing my own food & owning a small art gallery in town that featured the locals’ woolen knits, wood carvings, and hand stitched quilts.

School, neighborhood friends, hockey teams, dance competitions, and family ties kept us in Detroit. I am struggling to get used to this new chapter, but now that my kids are away at college I can tag along with my husband to the fun business destinations. I don’t really have any interest in flying over the Atlantic Ocean for 13 hours, but I will definitely go to Sin City for a trade show, the Miami Boat Show in February, or this little Victorian town near the Kentucky border.  

On the long car ride down, not only did I hear a lot of Bob Dylan and BB King on Classic Vinyl and Bluesville, I also got a few physics lessons. The semi in front of us had black smoke because his turbo charger’s oil to fuel ratio must have been off. The last batch of hard boiled eggs I made were too soft because I used a pot that was too small and the thermal mass was wrong (or something like that). This is the price I pay to be married to an engineer and go on a little get-a-way that is partially covered on company expenses.

We stopped at a rest area somewhere between Indy and Effingham, Ill. The only other car in the lot was a dull blue minivan with a paper temporary plate. The luggage rack was stuffed with thin, black garbage bags, barely secured with twine, and tattered from the wind. About 20 yards away a little boy sat at a picnic table eating a bag of chips. He had a tiny wirey-haired white dog that wasn’t more than four pounds on a makeshift leash from the same twine that was securing the "luggage."

A man slid open the side minivan door and hopped out. He wore black jeans and a neon yellow “Livestrong” shirt. I, myself love thrifting, so I am not being snobbish when I say that I doubt he bought the shirt at Dick’s Sporting Goods for $32. It was 90 degrees. His jeans were not appropriate for the weather, but by the looks of things, he might not have had a change of clothes nor a place to change them. The exposed van revealed another man. He was holding an infant. The van looked stuffed with blankets but no car seat in sight. I couldn’t help but wonder where two men and two kids might be traveling.

I said to the man in the parking lot, “Your dog is very cute.”

In very broken English, with a very crooked-toothed smile he said, “Her name Maya.” Later I felt bad that I didn’t also say his boy was cute. He couldn’t have known that I like dogs more than most little kids.

I went inside and saw 5 people huddled around the area’s map. They were all very dark in a very white farming community. Being the only other car in the lot, I assumed they were also traveling in the overstuffed minivan. I was glad to see women were traveling with the baby and boy. They looked as though the only meals they had that day were vending machine chips and breast milk.

God gives you what you can handle. Everything happens for a reason. Say it however you want. I’m feeling a little guilty that I am sitting on a balcony of a Victorian bed and breakfast sipping coffee and writing as my husband is working down the road at the turbo plant. Since my kids left, I have been begging to rescue a senior dog. My house is abundant in 4 legged fur babies, but it has been 2 years since our Clover died. Although I have 3 cats, without my kids, I am lonely.

Years ago I saw a documentary about migrant farm workers. They live in their cars and drive season to season wherever the work might be. This morning I was thinking about the 7 adults, 2 kids and 1 little dog parked next to our company car. What if their van broke down? What if they realized this area’s corn is harvested by heavy machinery and there is no work? What if they run out of gas? 

The documentary I watched interviewed families just like the one I saw at the rest stop. They said life was still better here than in Mexico. They were street-smart survivors. They were together. They survived on faith. When I left the rest stop I felt sick to my stomach. I felt sorry for them. But this morning, I thought about the guy in the Livestrong shirt. He had a big smile on his face when a stranger made small talk. His nest was far from empty, and best of all, he had a dog.