Memory Highway
I yawned as I watched the dotted lines in the middle of the highway zipped passed the hood of the car as we drove through the pitch dark of the night. It was a trip we’d done many times before, a trip that I’d always enjoyed going on despite the long distance we had to drive. The soft hum of the car’s engine, the loud noise of the wheels on the old pavement of the highway and the occasional crack in the road bouncing the car created a sort of rhythm through the length of the trip. Every time we made this trip, it was like a trip down a highway of memories, because my mind always went back to the day we first made this trip as father and son. I smiled as the memory of my first salmon fishing trip in Pulaski New York slowly began to surface; the night we arrived, early the next morning, a day of fishing and relaxing in the afternoon, then repeating the same process the next day.
A car door closed and I’m stirred awake by the shifting of the van. Slowly, my eyes drift open as a door to my immediate right opened up, and a surge of cold air rushed over me. Upon feeling the cold air, my eyes fly open and I shout to whoever had opened the door to close it. But my dad quickly unbuckled my seatbelt and picked me up out of the car seat. I groan tiredly as I’m lifted out of the van and out into the freezing air of the dark night. I wince as a bright light coming from my right blinds me somewhat. Looking to the left, I see that it’s a stereotypical motor lodge, with only two buildings and all rooms around the entire perimeter of both structures on the only floor; the ground floor. There wasn’t even a second story to speak of.
As I open my mouth wide and yawned, I happened to see the immense amount of stars in the night sky. Each point of light was like a single sparkling drop of rainwater caught in the rays of sunlight, hanging from the very edge of a pine trees needles. It was a brilliant sight to see, the first time I’d ever seen the magnificent dusty band across the whole length of the sky that I now know as the Milky Way Galaxy. I lean my chin on my dad’s shoulder and look out towards the silhouette of the tree line around the parking lot. Just as my dad stepped up onto the wrap-around porch of the motor lodge, I glance above the tree line the very instant a single faint sword of light streaked across the sky, putting a brief scar into the night sky. I’d seen my first shooting star. But being as young as I’d been at that time, I had no idea I was supposed to make a wish.
My dad opened the door to our room and a wall of heat greets us. I immediately begin feeling drowsy again upon feeling the warmth of the room embrace me. Turning my head to look with half opened eyes, I see a small square table in the center of the room and four bunk beds on either side of the room. Despite the bunks taking up much of the space of the room, it was in fact quite roomy for a motor lodge room. Dad put me down on the lower bed of the closest bunk, turned and stepped out of the room to help Uncle Joe with the suitcases and fishing gear. I could feel the heaviness of sleep quickly overcoming my senses as my eyes closed.
I rubbed my tired eyes and yawned again. Thinking back to that first late night arrival, I couldn’t believe that despite knowing the world was bigger than what I saw on a daily basis, I had no idea that the stars above me were part of something a lot bigger than the Earth. Granted, I was seven years old, but I’d always been fascinated by the night sky from as early as I could remember. But I was still only a little kid who didn’t know any better.
My dad glanced towards me after hearing me yawn. “You’re still awake?” he asked.
“Huh?” I said in response, my groggy mind unable to understand his question for a moment. But it was only for a moment, and it became clear what he was asking me the next moment, “Yeah. Just remembering our first trip up with Uncle Joe, Paul and Tom.”
Dad returned his focus back to the road ahead of him, “You actually remember that trip?”
I chuckled silently, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I remember? It was my first time salmon fishing. Sure, I was young and stupid, but no one forgets their first experience.”
He nodded in agreement, “Yep. First time is always the best time. What exactly do you remember from that trip?”
I smiled as I stared aimlessly out the front windshield into the wall of darkness ahead of the car. I didn’t answer immediately as my groggy mind tried to form the words I wanted to say. I squinted as a car heading the opposite direction on the other side of the highway didn’t turn its high beams off. Dad flashed them once and that was all they needed as their high beams quickly extinguished. Finally, my answer had been formed and I opened to answer…but all I managed to say was one word, “Everything.”
Even though I’d fallen asleep soon after my dad put me on the bed, I was restless for much of the night as I’d slept through much of the road trip. Not only that, but I was very excited about my first salmon fishing trip.
The night dragged on until the first signs of the rising sun began to appear on the horizon through the only window in the room. My dad was the first one up, followed by my brother and Paul, then Uncle Joe. We all dressed in warm clothes; thick wool socks, skin-tight long johns, warm pants, warm shirts and heavy sweaters and even gloves. It was that cold outside, as I poked my head out the door when my dad went to put the waders, boots and fishing poles in the van.
By the time we were all out the door, it was already six in the morning. Hopping into the van, we drove to the nearest local diner, which seemed much farther from the motor lodge than it actually was. But that was probably because I was young and possessed no concept of time. We weren’t the only ones with the same idea though; the diner was nearly packed full with other fishermen who had come up to Pulaski with their own sons and friends for the same reason we did. Luckily, someone pulled out of a spot in front of the diner no sooner had Uncle Joe pulled the van up to the diner, and he quickly parked before anyone else could grab it.
We enter the warmth of the diner and are immediately assaulted with a barrage of delicious smells; fried potatoes, omelets, fried onions, pancakes and maple syrup, scrambled eggs. Forks and knives scraping against plates in the eating area, the coffee machines churning and grinding behind the bar counter, dishes clanging together in the kitchen and people talking and laughing; the sounds of a full diner buzzing with activity. We were quickly escorted to the last open table on the left side of the diner. Taking our seats, the waitress handed each of us menus and we quickly opened them to feast our eyes upon the multitude of savory dishes we could choose from.
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