Old Blue Rides Again

Old Blue Rides Again

Had an old car and his name was Blue,

Had an old car and his name was Blue.

Had an old car and his name was Blue,

Betcha five dollars he’s a good car, too.

Here, Blue,

You good Prius you….

I’ve now driven Old Blue across the continent three times: from Massachusetts to California last November, back to Boston in June, and finally a return to Cali at the end of October. We both seem to enjoy the trips, visiting friends, seeing new sights.  Old Blue is a 2010 model, and he’s starting to approach the 200K-mile mark.  I thought he was in very fine shape, for such a senior citizen.

But I was mistaken, and he almost didn’t get the chance to return to the west coast.  For a time, it seemed, he was totaled.  And I had never suspected.

When I took him in for servicing in Pittsfield, MA, where I had bought him a decade earlier, it turned out that mice had been at him:  in the space between the roof and the ceiling, the heating system including the heater box, rodent infestation and destruction.  I drive Blue very little in Long Beach, actually, since I can walk to many destinations, and the public transportation is easy and inexpensive for elders.  I can take the light-rail train from five blocks from our apartment into Los Angeles to see my son and daughter-in-law for $0.35.  And I don’t have to park.

So Old Blue lived in a parking space out behind our apartment building for much of his time in Long Beach.  Maybe that was where the mice discovered him.  I don’t know.  But when the Toyota service guys discovered the damage, it appeared at first that the repairs would cost more than he was worth, and the insurance folks were going to write him off as a total loss.  Poor Blue!  Totaled by MICE?  I was heartbroken.

Disassembled, the interior looked like this:

Time wore on, as time does, and after close to a month the insurance company gave in.  I was insured by AAA California, and it took way too much time for the California guys to understand that OB was worth the trouble. But finally they approved the repairs, and we loaded up with a load of boxes of stuff that we had decided to take out to Long Beach.  So on October 21, we set out from Pittsfield for the west coast.

I had driven this trip a number of times, first in 1970, most recently east last May.  Once I did it on a 10-speed bicycle.  I enjoy seeing this country with all its various wonders, and all its various people.  Doing so restores my sometimes tattered faith.  And with Old Blue miraculously restored to health, how could I not feel restored?

Our first stop was in Hamburg, NY, just south of Buffalo.  I taught a year in nearby South Wales, at the Gow School, a small institution for dyslexic boys – now coed.  I stayed the night with my old roommate, Dan Kelley, a wonderful optimist himself, and his wife Jodie. The weather was sunny and warm, and Old Blue rolled across the NY Thruway with gracious aplomb.  I had a good time with the Kelleys, going through old yearbooks and hearing tales of my long-ago students.

Then we pushed on, through Cincinnati.  I tried to call a friend in Evansville, Indiana, where I taught for four years in the ‘60’s, but she was back visiting her alma mater, Mt. Holyoke, back in Massachusetts.  So we passed into Kentucky, and spent the night in Walton at a Motel 6, where Tom Bodett had left the light on for us.  Songs were in my head.  As we passed Lexington, I thought of a favorite television show, “Justified” and sang to Blue its “In the deep dark hills of eastern Kentucky, that’s the place where I trace my blood line…”  How was Raylan doing, anyhow? I wondered.  Off I-65 south of Louisville there were signs to Bardstown, the location of “My Old Kentucky Home”; and I thought of good old Stephen Foster.  Then we passed into Tennessee and were close to Nashville, where the Lovin’ Spoonful sang “Nashville Cats, play clean as country water….” Signs to Jackson, Mississippi: “We been talking ‘bout Jackson/Ever since the fire went out,” sang Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. We seemed to find songs all along the way.

By this time we were on I-40 heading straight west, and we spent the night in Forrest City, Arkansas. The next day I very deliberately stopped in Little Rock.  Little Rock had haunted my bad dreams ever since I was in the seventh grade in 1957, when Orval Faubus stood on the front steps of Central High School and refused to allow nine African American students admission in the wake of Brown vs. Board of Education.  The next day, President Eisenhower sent in members of the Army’s 101 Airborne Division, followed by the National Guard, and over the screams and epithets of crowds the nine students entered.  It was awful: they were cursed, spat upon, even threatened with death. For me, a life-long schoolteacher now retired, I still cringe when I think of it.  And I cannot imagine the courage those nine young people drew upon to accomplish their entry.

Old Blue and I discovered that Little Rock is no longer the city it was in 1957.  Central High School is still there, and it is a lovely place:

Trees and flowers and a reflecting pool lie in front of the wide brick building.  It has an enrollment of nearly 2500 students, of whom a little over half are black, around a third white, and the rest a mix of Asians, Hispanics, and other races.  Open to all students from Little Rock, it is a magnet school with very strong academics. It boasts more National Merit and National Achievement finalists than any other school in the state. The AP participation rate is 57%.  The graduation rate is 87%, which for a public school is exceptional.  In short, today the school is a triumph.

Across the street is a Civil Rights Museum, run by the National Park Service.  Inside are photographic exhibits, films, and recorded interviews with the nine students and other relevant figures from the crisis. I spoke for a time with the ranger running the center, who told me much about the present school, and how well it’s doing. She was very proud of the changes that had happened there.  I left the place with real joy; it IS possible to overcome intolerance and hatred, and we CAN build plowshares out of swords.  It just takes time and effort.  I thought I would have very much liked to teach at Central High School.

And then we set out from Little Rock, spending nights in Clinton, Oklahoma and Grants, New Mexico.  For the western half of the trip we followed I-40 most of the way – the route of old 66, thus keeping more south and out of the mountains where even in late October snow was possible.  Forests of wind turbines covered the prairies, so many we could not count them.  In Arizona we passed Navajo country, Window Rock, where Tony Hillerman wrote his wonderful Jim Chee/Joe Leaphorn novels.

And at last, six days after we had left the Berkshires, we passed through Needles and Barstow and sailed into Long Beach and home.  All the way Old Blue performed marvelously.  We covered 3130 miles, and the Prius magic averaged 48.5 miles per gallon for the entire trip.  Next summer I hope we can repeat the journey, following perhaps a different route, discovering other places that will enhance our delight and pride in this wonderful land.