Between Brooklyn and Nashville (light on cats)

Beatrice, NE

Inaccurately drawn map of distances traveled, one color per day.

Inaccurately drawn map of distances traveled, one color per day.

 

It was a very quick handful of days at home.

On Tuesday we woke before the sun, fed the screaming eagle outside our door calling for food and hands to bite, and drank black coffee as dawn crept across our noisy street. We drove our car to ride our bikes, and spun through the fog over covered bridges and along the steaming river, laughing, teeth chattering, sweaters covered in mist.

 

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A long day of Doing All Of The Things proceeded, and at its end I was rewarded with a late dinner at Grossland with Evan and Helena, Arcade Fire, loud, filling my bones, foil packets of shrimp cooked over the roaring fire, Dinah dog sighing at our feet, our hair full of smoke. In the warm lamplight of the newly outfitted cabin we examined the maps and history of the place I would be leaving for a while.

 

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And soon it was 5:30 am, dark, and I gathered the last of my things and said goodbye to my companion who is bearded in the back lot, our graffiti-covered train screaming past through the rivermist as a final send-off.

 

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Silver Car and I headed west, through the fog-filled cuts of the last grasps of Central Pennsylvania, over the Steel Belt’s rusting bridges, across Ohio’s grey flat plains, all the way to My hour in Cincinnati with Suzanne,

 

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and this cat (and these babies) (THIS IS THE CAT PART):

 

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After hugs and a sturdy lunch I set forth once more into the afternoon sunshine and crossed the bridge into Kentucky’s astonishing, rolling, watercolor highway, watertowers rising high, proclaiming “FLORENCE, YA’LL”, the grasses and trees smelling sweet with the windows down and me smiling and screaming along to all of the songs, a sudden cloudburst sticking me to the bumper of the car in front of me as to not lose the road, laughing at the sun pushing behind the hard rain further south.

Tennessee snuck up on me, and soon I was cruising 1-65, with southern city night air forcing my rainbow hat back on, en route to the airport to scoop my dear cousin and prairie woman cohort.

But that is a story for another day.

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About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
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