Saturday, February 27, 2010

 

Rivers of People, Flowing, Merging, Moving


I grew up, both in Detroit and Grosse Pointe, within five miles of I-94. It is a gritty strand that flows between abandoned churches and abandoned auto plants, a continuous tableau of exposed rebar and broken concrete. Even now that road is full of broken old sedans that thump on the potholes and rattle so loudly you can hear them in the next lane through the trash bag taped over that old sedan's window. The interstate (like too many other things) was held a safe distance away from Grosse Pointe, four blocks from our neighborhoods, but was still our lifeline to the rest of the world. Every trip started with that merge, that short entry ramp, onto I-94. My dad would hit the gas, the car would jump, and we would slip into that flow with people headed to Flint and Toledo and Lansing and places even less fortunate than those.

Now I live the same distance from I-35, which runs from Laredo to Duluth. Unlike Grosse Pointe, the interstate runs straight up the gut of Waco; Baylor dorms are yards away from trucks rumbling by. I-35 is always crowded, always, and is the Mississippi River of Texas, full of people and goods and immigrants and life. And, sometimes, death-- the river is still untamed, and can kill you if you aren't careful. In Austin, it splits into two levels, and I always take the upper deck so that I can see everything, look right into the football stadium and see the students at UT. In the summer, I have driven that road nearly its full length starting in Duluth and heading south as I start out in a sweatshirt and end up in shorts two days later, home again in Waco.

These are the two rivers I have known best.

Recently, I found myself at the place where they meet. I was on I-35, and the GPS said "turn left on I-94," and it struck me that this was the meeting point of my life. For a moment, the two roads ran together and I saw tall buildings and a place I didn't know, even as I was surrounded by the grit and steel of my familiars. These are my rivers, and I am still a drop, flowing, flowing, changing lanes and speeding up.

Comments:
You know that the hill behind the GPS Municipal Hall was dirt from the digging of I-94?
 
Do you mean Vernier Hill? I thought that was an abandoned toxic waste dump.
 
Mt Trashmore.
 
Yes, Vernier Hill! It was created with dirt from the I-94 construction. My Mom and Aunt remember when it was 'created'.

I remember when there was a ski tow rope on the hill. It looks so small now, but back in the day and flat lands of GP it looked huge.
 
What a beautifully written, emotional post. It makes me sad.
 
Ah, Minneapolis...to be there in the spring...
 
Man, you are getting deep. I cannot say that I feel that way about the Mass Pike, but the Post Road has meaning.
 
A not-so-interesting point is that as someone who grew up in Waco and now lives a few hours north of Duluth . . . it's kind of funny that on both ends, we just kind of assume it goes all the way.

At least, that seems to be the consensus from what I remember.

"Oh yeah. 35 goes all the way down to Mexico."

"Oh, dontcha know? Yeah, the 35 goes all the way up into Canadia."

Also, this little gem, "Stuff is cheaper because when you go up there to Winnipeg, they give you more money."

(not true. They come down here to buy booze.)

Whereas this is mostly true crossing the border to Mexico: things are cheaper.

Anyway, just some fun flowing, merging, and moving, as it were.
 
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