They were oblivious to the 24/7 televised reporting on world events, certain in their knowledge that there would be political, financial, and human carnage from big to small. They did know that they were headed north towards green mountains. Their planned path would take them through many small town main streets in the northeast.
They were surprised by the numbers of what appeared to be recently shuttered Roman Catholic churches in towns that were still vibrant. Many of the boarded up places of worship had sturdy ethnic saint’s names. Saints Cyril, Nicholas, Canicus, Bertha, and Casimir all had their front doors plywood covered.
Just as with Wall Street in 2008, the numbers were against these parishioners. Fewer priests and steeply declining numbers of worshippers probably prompted the closures. Small churches and those with weak finances and infrastructure were vulnerable to the downsizing and consolidation. In their place would be more generically names parishes like Holy Family, Sacred Heart and so on.
These sights were sad to see — small town churches that once were celebrated as these communities sacred spaces no longer served that purpose. They ended up at best as landmarks for driving directions or at worst a harbinger of the town’s coming disappearance.
Who would care for the parishioner graves and cemeteries as worshipers inevitably gravitated away from these ever-decreasing small towns? In one tiny place that had no name but had a shuttered church – St. Bertha’s, there were two graveyards for the Catholic faithful.
After an early lunch, the Poconos swallowed them and their machines up. The small farms and dairies which dotted the roadside landscape freed them from the thoughts and images of decaying cemeteries and boarded up churches.
Along the final leg to that night’s motel, they met two woman of these green mountains.
Their first encounter was at a gas station. She was an eighty five year old great grandma who looked sixty. As they filled their Harleys with super, she exited the minivan next to their bikes to enquire about their source and destination.
She was a former scooter rider back in the day. Petite but with spectacular but now gravity-affected cleavage, she talked of her WW II service in the USMC, her great grandson’s soccer prowess and her two deceased Army Air Corp husbands. As they parted, they held out their hands, bid her goodbye and said “Semper Fi.” She took their hands in turn and squeezed in response as her eyes momentarily glistened.
Somewhere past Rutland on a ridge top road in blindingly blue skies, they pulled over to assist a novice motorcyclist restart her stalled motorcycle. She was a 40ish single mom who had owned the shiny black bike for less than two weeks. While her boyfriend helped her select the model based on her riding requirements, there were a few things missing in her basic bike education. She had run the carburetor and regular section of her gas tank bone dry. We switched her gas tank’s petcock to reserve and showed her how to prime her cruiser’s carburetor. After a few coughs and sputters, the machine returned to life. She didn’t tarry since they told her that her reserve supply was likely good for no more than fifteeen miles of riding.
They arrived at their motel for the night a bit earlier than planned. They parked their bikes on the gravel and shale driveway and inspected the place. All signs pointed to a most excellent evening.
While Augustus and Rex enjoyed their nighty glass of blue elixir, Steve explored some more.
Marlow unpacked his trip notes, a bottle of water and a cigar. He puffed and journaled for an hour overlooking a green landscaped pond with that day’s blue highway to this paradise in the background from his chair at the Evergreen Motor Court:
“The world may been have running out of time on its road to nowhere, but these riders were on a road to somewhere, perhaps paradise. On these blue highways, time was still on their side. They didn’t worry or wonder where they were. They didn’t care. The road would take them somewhere. To the shining city in their minds, perhaps it was nearby or maybe far away. They didn’t care. They were on the road, where time was on their side and they were focussed on enjoying the ride along the way.”
– Marlow’s ending journal entry for that day
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