We’ve tried longer visits, shorter visits, and more frequent visits, but we can’t escape this fact: Columbus, Ohio is a midwestern black hole that sucks us in every time we cross the country.

It’s not the city or the shopping (blech!) or the restaurants. For me and Barry, Columbus, Ohio, has more beloved people per capita than any other place on the planet. The magnetic pull starts with a special brother, a fantastic sister and brother-in-law, and two precious nephews.

Add a bunch of friends who are as dear as any blood relative. We haven’t lived there since 1990 — yet we continue to meet amazing people, both in and out of Columbus, who call that place their home. We’ve known some Columbus friends for almost 30 years, and others for one year.

So each time we leave, there are a few hours or days of letdown.

This time, we headed west on US40, the National Road. There wasn’t much to see. Corn. Corn. A sign for the Krazy Glue Factory. Corn. Corn.

I tried to remind myself that each corn plant is a new and different being that came from a seed and didn’t exist the previous year. How would you like it if people said, “Human. I’ve seen those before. You’re no different. I’m not interested.”

Unfortunately, I can’t discriminate between this corn and the corn I saw in 1981, or 1993, or any other year I drove or bicycled on US40.

The heat and humidity were oppressive, and our air conditioning was broken. The last time we had it recharged was because the lack of air-conditioning in Yuma, Arizona made us terminally irritable, and $400 was cheap compared to homicide. We’re a lot more tolerant (and cheap) these days, so we decided to live without it.

In Springfield, Ohio, we discovered that MacDonald’s was running a special on ice cream cones. This was too good to pass up — air-conditioning, people-watching, and two ice cream cones for only $1.

Barry came back from the restroom and found me playing with both his napkin and mine. “Sorry. I hope you don’t need this,” I said, handing back his very-crumpled napkin.

There was a game imprinted on the table, a circle divided into pie-shaped pieces with instructions on each one. You were supposed to spin a straw in the middle and do the activity it landed on. Since ice cream cones don’t come with a straw, I just picked my favorite. “Make a hand puppet out of your napkin,” it said.

After leaving MacDonald’s, Barry took the wheel for a while. He decided to drive on the interstate instead of the two-lanes, and guided the Squid Wagon back onto I-70.

At first I regretted his decision. What would we see along the four-lane highways? Corn. MacDonald’s. Corn. Corn. Corn. Boring.

If you’ve ever read anything I’ve written before, you’re laughing at me. I am, too. You see, I spend a lot of time worrying and fretting and writing about my fear of being bored. Yet the truth is, it never happens. I am never, ever, ever bored!

Why? It’s not just each corn plant that is different and unique: It’s each moment.

Enjoy the next moment.

Let me know how that goes. Boring? I doubt it.

At 8 am in Paxton, Nebraska, we stopped to mail some postcards and ask a couple of locals for directions. “Have you ever heard of a place around here with a bowling alley and a soda fountain? They’re famous for their tin roof sundaes.”

“Nope, nothing like that around here.”

It was a little early to be eating decadent ice cream treats, anyway, so we weren’t too disappointed. We later realized we were still 100 miles east of the place, which is in Potter, Nebraska.

But the two local fellows didn’t want to disappoint us. “You ever been in there?” one asked, pointing to the bar on the corner. “That’s a real tourist attraction — people come from all over the country to see it.”

We said no, politely looking up at the sign. Ole’s Big Game Bar and Grill had tinted windows, so there was no telling what was inside that he thought might be of interest to us “tourists.”

“They’re not open for business, but there’s somebody in there,” he said.

We walked over and tried one of the doors. It was locked. But there was another door, this one unlocked, and the fellows were watching to see us go inside. It was a normal-looking restaurant, and a woman was inside, vacuuming. “Some guys out there said we should come in and look…” I said, sheepishly.

She pointed to the next room. “Go ahead,” she said, resuming her vacuuming.

In the next room, my jaw dropped. “Holy cow!” I exclaimed.

“That’s the only thing you won’t find here,” said Barry.

The first thing that caught my eye was the elephant’s head. It hung to my left, just over the piano. “How the heck do you hang up an elephant’s head?” I asked.

To my right, in the corner, was a giraffe’s head. It started near the floor and went all the way to the ceiling, with the tail, but no legs. It wasn’t a huge place, but every square inch of the upper wall was covered in all manner of things with horns and fur — moose, deer, elk, and African critters I’ve never even heard of. A giant bison head, almost as big as the elephant, led the way to the bathrooms. Tusks taller than I stood on either side of the fireplace, and there was a stuffed cheetah and an iguana above them. Over the bar, an enormous snake coiled below a leopard’s paw.

The most amazing thing in Ole’s was the polar bear — not just his head, but the whole bear, in a glass display case almost as big as my boat. The seal captured under his paw seemed smaller than the giant paw itself.

I walked around the room, staring dazedly at all the stuffed animals overhead. Despite Barry’s correction, I couldn’t stop muttering, “Holy cow, holy cow.”

The funny thing was, we were just going to mail a couple of postcards, so we didn’t have the camera with us. You’ll just have to believe me. Holy cow.

At the Flying J truck stop near Fancy Gap, we slept in the back of the van. In the morning, Barry tumbled out the back door (it’s about 4-1/2 feet down to the ground from our bed) and headed to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, I clambered out that way, too. A white SUV with dark tinted windows and Georgia plates was parked next to us, and a slender black man got out of the driver’s seat. He s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d, and a round woman came around the car to take the wheel. She had that characteristic I’ve-been-riding-too-long limp.

They met on the driver’s side, and he surprised her with a big hug. She threw her head back and started laughing; she was still laughing merrily as she slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door.

The man stayed beside the car and got out a cigarette. I smiled at him and asked, “What did you say to make her laugh like that?”

He broke into a broad smile himself.

“I haven’t been able to drive for 23 years,” he said, “you know, problems with my license… I got it all straightened out and got my license two months ago.”

“Wow! Congratulations!”

“The last time we did this trip,” he continued, “she had to do all the driving. Now, I think, since I’m the male, that I should be able to do more than I can… but I can’t. There are children involved…” I realized that there were two child seats in the car, behind the tinted windows.

They were headed from Atlanta to Pittsburgh, and they’d driven all night. “I have to be responsible; I can’t be driving when I’m sleepy,” he said. I nodded, and we were silent for a moment, thinking about how dangerous driving can be. I wondered about his 23 lost years.

“I know what you mean about those long drives,” I replied. “Last year, I drove across the country, from Seattle to Beaufort, by myself.”

Now it was his turn to marvel. “You must have seen a lot,” he said. “What did you do?”

“Mostly, I just looked for interesting people to talk to, like yourself!”

We chuckled, shook hands, and wished each other safe travels. His cigarette forgotten, he got into the passenger seat and headed for Pittsburgh.

What do you do after a circumnavigation? Go around again?

Our 1990 Ford van, the Squid Wagon, half-circumnavigated the USA — from Florida to Newfoundland (via Columbus, Ohio) and across to Seattle in one trip. At the time, we were traveling with our cat, who was the reason we bought a big ol’ van instead of camping with a tent and small car.

The cat passed away in 2005, and Squidley died in 2006. The cat was given a decent burial under a lovely tree. The van sat in front of our apartment for about a year, and our next-door neighbor complained every time he saw us. “I can’t see to back out of my driveway,” he whined.

Finally, I had the van towed to a garage, and they told me it was B.E.R.: Beyond Economic Repair. When I argued with them, they stopped returning my calls and dumped the three and a half ton, non-functional vehicle back on my doorstep with a bill for $250. Grrrrrr.

And then Barry stuck his head under the hood and tinkered. A miracle occurred. The van was resurrected with a loud, distinctive roar.

I was certain it would die again any moment. Not Barry. He was so confident, he began packing for the next trip. So we loaded up with with tools and books and art supplies and sailing gear and headed south through California. When we reached San Diego, we turned east, to North Carolina, where our new sailboat awaited us.

On that trip, we had a strange box-like item tied to the top of the van. At rest areas and gas stations, men chewing on toothpicks would come over and peer up at it. “What’s that?” they’d ask Barry. “It’s a boat,” he’d say. They’d look at him skeptically. “My wife built it.” He said it earnestly and seriously, but every time, it was like the punchline to a joke. “Your wife? Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Now the Squid Wagon — and we — were veterans of a circumnavigation, and we could all relax. But we didn’t.

That summer, we decided to drive to Black Rock City, Nevada. This load was more interesting than usual — outrageous costumes, inflatable space aliens, a deconstructed port-a-pottie, and one of the sails from the boat to provide much-needed shade. Burning Man was calling us; we had to participate in the amazing week-long festival in the desert a second time.

The trip out (via Columbus, Ohio) was fun, but the trip back was challenging. Squidley had “issues,” and we limped back, making repairs in Oregon, Wyoming, and Kentucky. There was another miracle, when we broke down on a backroad in Iowa — on a Sunday afternoon — and were rescued by a passing diesel mechanic named Tim. It made for good stories, but a lot of stress.

After that, I was ready to put the Squid Wagon out to pasture, since we won’t need a car once we launch our sailboat. But Barry still has confidence in our 20-year-old van, and he convinced me to drive it back to Seattle and Burning Man (via Columbus, Ohio, of course).

Like the elderly person he is, Squidley has some issues catching his breath. He runs rough at times, and his digestive system is very sensitive to bad gas. Going over the Appalachians, he coughed and wheezed. “Breathe, Squidley, breathe!” I sang out. He made it, over the hills to Columbus, Ohio.

We’re in Nebraska now, almost to the Wyoming border, and he’s chugging along well. There’s a new air filter ready to install, and a new fuel filter, and Barry changed the oil filter and oil … you guessed it, in Columbus, Ohio.

This afternoon, we’re taking Squidley to Carhenge, which is one of those mystical places that all American cars should visit in their lives. It’s a full-scale model of Stonehenge, made out of American cars welded together. We’d stopped there in 2003, on the final voyage of the Peepcar, and now we find ourselves inexorably drawn back.

Beyond Economic Repair, indeed. The Squid Wagon can’t wait to see Carhenge.

I was replete, after dinner at the Hong Kong Buffet with my too-thin brother, Stevie. We said our farewells, and I took the wheel and headed west and north from Durham, North Carolina.
When I took the first corner, though, there was a loud THUNK from the rear of the van. “What was that?” I asked Barry, alarmed. “That’s the ladder,” he said, “or maybe the campstools. Or both.” “OK,” I said, and continued driving.

A sharpish corner brought another THUNK from the rear. I didn’t think about it until the next one, THUNK, which was the turn onto the interstate on-ramp.

The THUNKs subsided, because there were no more sharp turns. But I started worrying, worrying, worrying. What was that ladder bumping into? Could it be the van’s window? Would the next THUNK be accompanied by breaking glass?

I finally voiced my worries, along with the statement that “we” should do something about that. (By “we,” I meant Barry.)

“OK, next rest area,” he said. Now he was the one thinking. (Small smoke puffs were coming out his ears.)

Around dusk, I found a scenic overlook near Pilot Mountain, and Barry had decided what to do. We’d flatten the ladder (12 feet long), tie the sail and conduit to that (10 feet long), and strap the conglomerated sausage to the roof rack. Since Squidley is 17 feet long, it wouldn’t even stick out.

Barry lifted the folded ladder out of the back, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The window wasn’t cracked. Then he passed it to me, saying “Make it flat,” and my relief went away.

The ladder in question is a Versaladder, one with four segments and three sets of hinges that can be converted from stepladder to scaffold or tall ladder. But I always pinch my fingers in the stiff hinges. This time, I was worrying so much about my fingers that one section of the gangly thing got away from me. Fwing! It flopped onto the pavement, nearly putting a dent in the van, and Barry, in the process.

A stocky man with sandy hair and a moustache was standing nearby, and he couldn’t help but laugh at my antics. Then he looked at me, sheepishly, and I started laughing, too.

Curiosity got the best of him, and he walked over. “Is that a ladder?”

“Yes, and the sail from a 33-foot sailboat,” I said, explaining Barry’s plan to move the load on top of the 7-1/2 foot tall van. The man looked skeptical. I was skeptical, too. “How do we get the ladder on top without the ladder?” I asked Barry.

“We put one end up and then walk it up,” he said. As the sandy-haired man watched, we each went to one end of the ladder to test the weight. It was a grunt, but I could lift one end.
Barry started tying things to the ladder, and the man hung around and chatted with me. He seemed too shy to be talking freely to a stranger, but I found out that he lived nearby and worked at the battery plant in Winston-Salem. He’d just come from a car show, and his hobby was fixing up old cars. “Sound more like a passion than a hobby,” I commented. He almost blushed.

Then Barry handed me a rope and said, “marl that end around the sail and the rungs.” The sandy-haired man looked impressed with Barry’s fancy word, but I rolled my eyes. “Showoff,” I muttered.

When I joined the tying process, our curious friend walked back to his car. I thought he’d left for good.

But when it was all tied on the ladder, and we started carrying it out behind the van, he reappeared. Suddenly, the load was much lighter as a third set of hands joined in the lifting. In about 20 seconds, the tough part of the job was done.

“That was so easy!” I exclaimed to the man. “You must have had all the weight.”

“No, I thought you did,” he said.

“It wasn’t me,” said Barry. All three of us grinned at each other.

We shook his hand in thanks, and then he wished us safe travels and went away, for good this time.

Now I understood why he’d hung around and chatted, even though he was very shy. He was afraid that we wouldn’t be able to get the ladder on the roof by ourselves. He’d hung around the overlook for an extra 15 minutes, just to help us lift it.

It was dark as Barry clambered like a monkey to tie the ladder to the roof rack. Then we continued on our way, grateful for the man who stayed so he could help when he was most needed.

I can’t believe I’m here again. I’m in Columbus, Ohio, AGAIN, visiting with family, having driven here from coastal North Carolina. We’re headed cross-country, to spend a month in Seattle before our fourth-annual week in the desert at Burning Man.

Our 1990 Ford Club Wagon van, the Squid Wagon, is parked in the driveway. It’s packed with the usual unusual stuff — quinoa and seaweed, glowsticks, LEDs, and calligraphy pens. There’s a whole set of electrical wiring tools and supplies and a large, innocuous-looking beige bin.

When you’re traveling the backroads, you just never know when you’ll need the stuff in the bin. Flashy-blinkie fur-trimmed pink bunny ears with sequins. Death-bunny pajama pants. Belly dance pants. A purple furry hat wired with Christmas lights. My infamous orange evening gown, which should have gotten me a free steak dinner in South Dakota. (There was a man who dared me to wear it into a honky-tonk bar, and I did. I posed for photos on the bar and the pool table, but he reneged on his part of the deal.)

With only nine days, this will be one of the quickest cross-country trips we’ve ever made. Still, I hope to stay off the interstates as much as possible. It’s on the two-lane roads that we find the magic moments. I’m always looking for that smile, conversation, or moment of connection with the people along the way. That’s what the two-lane life is all about.

And if I don’t find the magic moments, I’ll make ‘em. That’s what the beige bin is all about.