Play It Loud
When driving on the open road, my soundtrack
carries me over each hill and along the lengthy straightaways (sees “The
Soundtrack” from December 2012) as my constant companion and closest emotional
guidepost. And on the ideal occasions,
when the tepid temperature cannot be kept from me by a single pane of glass, and
the sporadic cars cannot be considered traffic, and the music seemingly leads
the car forward, I roll down the windows, turn up the volume and sing terribly
relishing in these most perfect moments of life. When a song touches me this way and the world
around me urges me to envelope myself in its melody and lyrics, I know not to
resist. Traveling solo happily lends to
such behavior.
The monument to New Jersey’s veterans reaches
more than two hundred feet into the brilliantly azure autumn sky, and I decide
to conquer its two hundred ninety-one steps.
With a number of stops along the climb, I ascend to its peak and observe
the distant mountains, the neighboring states, and the brushes of autumn
painting brilliant colors on the forest of trees beneath me. When I finally decide to return from my
perch, I stop and strike a triumphant pose, and resume the blaring levels of
Simon and Garfunkel. But rather than
count the cars, or the steps, or the states, I bask in my random discovery
tucked in the corner of New Jersey. And
then off I go.
When driving on the open road, my soundtrack
carries me over each hill and along the lengthy straightaways (sees “The
Soundtrack” from December 2012) as my constant companion and closest emotional
guidepost. And on the ideal occasions,
when the tepid temperature cannot be kept from me by a single pane of glass, and
the sporadic cars cannot be considered traffic, and the music seemingly leads
the car forward, I roll down the windows, turn up the volume and sing terribly
relishing in these most perfect moments of life. When a song touches me this way and the world
around me urges me to envelope myself in its melody and lyrics, I know not to
resist. Traveling solo happily lends to
such behavior.
And as I entered New Jersey, number forty-eight
in the quest of Project Fifty, through its northernmost
tip, my intentions never included seeing the bulk of the state. I would just graze the mountainous regions
along the Pennsylvania/New York tri-state border, skipping the cities, the
seashores, and the famed Garden State Parkway.
And one line from one song echoed in my head, and within moments, blasted
from the windows of my rented car, “Counting the cars on the New Jersey
Turnpike, they’ve all gone to look for America.”
More Than A Number
With only a few Jersey miles behind me, an
obelisk in the rolling hills distracts me, darting in and out from behind the
trees. As the road twists and turns, I
crane to see the structure and attempt to devise a route closer to its base
despite the intentions of the pavement. A
monument here seems odd and out of place, but even more unusual that I failed
to notice it on my atlas. Even with my
short slice through the state, how did I miss the focal point of High Point State Park on my map? I continue to approach, and it appears to grow in stature as I wind my way to its ground floor.
The monument to New Jersey’s veterans reaches
more than two hundred feet into the brilliantly azure autumn sky, and I decide
to conquer its two hundred ninety-one steps.
With a number of stops along the climb, I ascend to its peak and observe
the distant mountains, the neighboring states, and the brushes of autumn
painting brilliant colors on the forest of trees beneath me. When I finally decide to return from my
perch, I stop and strike a triumphant pose, and resume the blaring levels of
Simon and Garfunkel. But rather than
count the cars, or the steps, or the states, I bask in my random discovery
tucked in the corner of New Jersey. And
then off I go.
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