Just when I felt like it was finally summer, the cold sets in. It’s like someone flipped a switch that effected the Midwest.
I’ve mentioned before my position on winter, questioning why I live here. But that’s not what this is about.
One summer in my youth I read the book On the road by Jack Kerouac.
It was a 1970’s reprint I found in a resale shop bin. Like most people, after reading it I wanted to get in a car and drive across the country. So me and a friend did just that.
We took off in his pick up truck and headed to Portland Oregon to visit a friend.
I shit you not, we made the trip in 24 hours. No stops, just drive.
When we arrived, walked into my friends apartment, he handed me a beer. The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning kneeling on the floor face down with that same beer in my hand. Passed out instantly.
It was the tail end of summer. After about a week we headed back home.
At home the seasons were starting to cool. Autumn.
I started reading the book while riding in the moving truck I worked in. It’s a very different book than on the road.
He describes a childhood in a small town and a mysterious entity that haunts him.
The description of this time was just so close to the way things were as I rode in this truck. It stuck.
This weather always reminds me of this book. And instead of my hate for the cold. This change has a tendency to inspire. It’s like a time portal that takes me back to that moment.