Day 17: Homeward Bound

Now that we’ve been back from our 2013 Baseball and National Park Road Trip for two weeks, I guess it’s high time I finish up the blogging. This one shouldn’t take too long since it was just the travel day from Louisville.

In the morn, the idea came to me to drop Brother Peter off in Springfield, Ill., home of the mother lady. Instead of making him go home with us, spend the night keeping the Dings awake with his infernal racket, and getting up at the buttocks crack of dawn to chauffeur his arse to the Amtrak station to board the train for the Illinois state capitol, why not just banish the luggage before heading home? Sure it would add a couple of hours to the travel day, but it would also alleviate super early rising, night tremors, and angry, sleepless felines. Good idea, Dave! You rock.

So off we headed from Louisville en route to the Land of Lincoln. Of course the day wouldn’t be complete without a stop at a pickin’ place, the last such stop of the journey. As usual, Brother Peter retreated to the comfort of the Rav after about 30 seconds and his sister followed not long after as I received this text, “I’m done. Are you about ready?” I took my selections to the register to exchange payment and joined the siblings for the remainder of the trek homeward. As we inched closer to Springfield, we of course hit every rest stop and grimy gas station lavatory east of the Mississippi.

After 47 hours of driving, we rolled into the capitol city to dump the baggage at the Mama’s. Unfortunately, for Brother Peter, he was supposed to arrive on Monday and we decided to surprise the mother with the gift of his presence a day early without informing her first. Thus, he was shunned and sent away as his unanticipated arrival interrupted her plans. Poor guy…banished twice in one day.

We left town before she got the idea to send him home with us and directed the vehicle toward Cardinal Nation. Ninety minutes later, we were passing Baseball Heaven leaving only minutes before the felines would be reunited with their precious owners. We pulled into the driveway and had to quickly dump our belongings in order to return the Rav to the rental facility, pronto. The Dings were not pleased, as they barely received head pats before we were once again gone from their sight. Poor little lambs.

Once we dropped the Rav at Hertz and Julia joined me in Black Indy, we headed to the exit for the ride back home to the four. As I made the turn to leave the lot, a shuttle driver turned down the same aisle in which we were traveling from the opposite direction and pointed her people carrier directly at us as though she was challenging me to the age-old automobile game of chicken. I naturally assumed, since we were not driving in the UK, or another country where the common practice is to drive on the left side of the road, that she would remove her vehicle from my path and the inevitable head-on collision she seemed intent to cause. I tapped the brakes to wait for her to veer, which she apparently had no intention of doing. I honked the warning device and threw up my hands as to say, “WTF, shuttle driving nutjobber?” She flailed her torso extensions in a “Go around me” gesture. Seriously? I very nearly went Fight Club on her arse and I’m certain I would have left the vehicle to cause some sort of ruckus had Julia’s cool head not prevailed. “Just let it go…” said she. I’m not sure why that worked on me, and while my anger did not subside, I did not wind up in jail for bludgeoning a rental car shuttle driver. And for that, I guess I’m thankful, but she was sooooo lucky.

I have no photos to offer from the day except for this...

WARNING: Abhorrent vomit-inducing fluid contained herein!

This is the gift we bring back for our Christian friends whenever we travel to the southern regions of our nation. They actually put in a request before we depart. You see, the Christians are Southern – he’s from Georgia, she’s from Alabama – and it’s part of the Southern Code to enjoy this vile liquid detritus. You must also take delight in the Southern food groups – sweet tea, grits, and everything else fried smothered in gravy, as well as their own national pastime, NASCAR. Those are the rules and that’s the code. Embrace it or head home, Yankee.

When I visited Charlotte back in 2009, my most hated cousin, Cindi, asked, “Have you ever had Cheerwine?” “No,” I said. “You’ll like it. It tastes like Dr. Pepper,” she alleged. You had me at Dr. So I laid down the cash in exchange for this magical beverage only to be extremely disappointed and damn near poisoned, first by the initial sting of its flavors upon my palate and then by the horrible aftertaste of this noxious liquid that coated my esophagus and the lining of my cheeks and melted the enamel from my teeth. It tasted like Dr. Pepper about as much as a nice fuel oil and cherry Twizzlers concoction. I’d much prefer to consume discarded motor oil, a gallon of Prestone (not mixed with water), or even one of those carcinogenic Tab soda beverages.

I offer this simple warning. If you hail from north of the Mason-Dixon, DO NOT attempt to consume this so-called beverage. You will suffer temporary blindness and your taste buds will dissolve, in an instant, on your tongue and you will crave immediate death. It will take weeks to physically recover. Emotional recovery, on the other hand, may never come to pass.

And thus concludes the 2013 Baseball and National Park Road Trip travel blog. Until 333 days from now, peace out, or as I learned from a Southern belle on the trip…

“Peace out, girl scout.”