Topic: Scratchpad
I do enjoy May, June and July: the days of the long sun. It’s pleasant to drink a glass of wine on the patio at eight p.m., with sunlight still gilding the tops of the trees at the far end of the back lawn. But there’s something to be said as well for getting up in the dark.
For the final seven years of my working life (2004–11) I held a job in Chicago. Because it was a bit too far to commute to work from my corner of northwest Indiana I kept an apartment in the city, returning home every Friday afternoon. At first I’d head back to Chicago on Sunday evening but later on, taking advantage of the hour gained by crossing from EST to CST, I’d get up early on Monday morning and head west at around four a.m. Usually I could count on arriving at my apartment by five, with time to spare for a nap before breakfast.
Even in high summer my weekly drive to Chicago would commence in the dark. But I much preferred the mornings in autumn, winter and early spring when I beat the sun to the city. Traveling on the Indiana Toll Road at such an hour I was seldom bothered by traffic, and the ever-present construction zones were easily navigated. I drove in silence, without radio talk or music, rushing through the dark under a sky full of stars�€Š—�€Šprovided that the weather was clear, which often it wasn’t. People who live along the Great Lakes are familiar with the phenomenon known as lake-effect snow. Depending on the vagaries of geography and wind it’s sometimes possible to stand in the sun, observing a heavy snow squall just down the street. On the Toll Road I often transitioned abruptly from unlimited visibility and a clear road to a mini-blizzard. My hands would tighten on the steering wheel and my speed would drop but usually within a matter of miles I’d find myself in the clear again. On several occasions I experienced four or five such transitions on the way to Chicago.
The great gift of my weekly morning commute was solitude. This was particularly true after the Chicago Skyway and the Indiana Toll Road introduced electronic toll collection and I had no more need to stop and deposit money into the hand of a toll booth attendant. (If you don’t have an I-Pass or the equivalent—get one. It’ll change your life.) For a couple of hours every Monday morning I had the assurance that no one—wife, friend, boss, coworker—would interrupt my train of thought. My mind was free to wander where it would. Now and then this had practical results. I might remember something important that had slipped my mind, or spontaneously resolve some work-related issue. But mostly I just free associated. In the dark, on the road, all alone, ideas and inspirations seemed to come more easily.
In February 2011 Chicago was struck by an epic winter storm that paralyzed the city for three days. Some 5,000 cars and busses were stranded on Lakeshore Drive, abandoned by their drivers and passengers. On the afternoon of the storm’s arrival I was fortunate enough to make it to my apartment, where I weathered the crisis in comfort. But the mess on Lakeshore Drive kindled an idea, and over the Monday morning commutes remaining to me before I retired the following September I wrote what was to become my first published short story. Of course I don’t mean that I pounded a keyboard with one hand as I drove. But by the time I did sit down at my desk, I knew exactly how to begin the story, how it would develop, and how it would end. The hard work had been done behind the wheel of my Xterra. All I had to do was type the thing up and give it a title.
My final Monday-morning commute to Chicago was on September 26, 2011; the following Friday, September 30, I was due to retire. It was dark when I pulled out of the driveway at around four a.m., dark as I turned onto the Toll Road entrance ramp, dark as I passed the toll booths, my I-Pass operating the gate for me. The onramp curves sharply before merging with the Toll Road; I navigated the turn with practiced familiarity, easing onto the interstate. And then I was rushing along, speedometer edging past seventy, overtaking a solitary semi—alone in the dark, under a sky still full of stars.
How I miss it now, the solemn peace of those dark mornings of the soul on the road to Chicago.
