JAUNTING - Of Potholes & Smashed Potatoes

  

                                

 Even with the windows open and moving at a good clip, it is hot.  Way too hot for this time of the year.  T-shirt and shorts are the order of the day, on my way home from visiting family in Montreal, for a traditional Thanksgiving weekend.  Mid-October and the sun beats down as though it’s high summer.  What the hell?  I even think about closing the windows and turning on the a/c but that seems like too much work.  Still stuffed from yesterday’s decadent pig-out of a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, I feel slothful on this bright, sunny day.  I decide to jaunt the back roads for my return trip to just a bit north of Toronto, the place I’ve called home for almost 40 years. 

Some people, including a lot of my family members, think I’m a bit strange about this thing I call jaunting, but that’s okay.  We all have foibles.  As I head towards home, driving the back roads, I think about how my addiction started.  Summer weekend evenings, usually Sundays - dinner’s over and the dishes are done - and boredom rears its flat head.  Always up for adventure, I choose a direction; east, west, north, south and just go that way, taking back roads.  I also try to get back home on roads, which are different from the ones I take to get there - wherever ‘there’ is.  I go as far as daylight allows me to see everything interesting and the not-so interesting and also the need to be back home and in bed at a decent hour.  Over the years my jaunting has expanded to encompass longer trips, such as going to and from Montreal.  I even plan vacations to places like Wawa and Thunder Bay, just to take back roads in places I haven’t explored yet.  I love taking byways and roads less travelled. You just never know what you’ll see or who you’ll meet. 

                    

One of the benefits of jaunting is being able avoid the massive Highway 401, slightly to the north of my current adventure.  I understand why most people prefer the highway, since it usually only takes about 6 or seven hours to get to Montreal from Toronto.  I come up with at least three good reasons as to why I would rather take back roads and byways – ‘A’ – Highway 401 is terribly boring.   ‘B’ – Most of the time, it’s at a virtual standstill.  What’s the point in taking a highway if you’re not moving?  And ‘C’, and the one that is probably closest to the heart of the matter, is, The Ex.  Yes, the ex-husband, who’s been out of my life for about 35 years now.  It rests squarely on his shoulders.  He had and probably still has an obsession about not going for just a drive.  He always has to have a destination and then he has to go from Point A to Point B, as fast as he possibly can.  I was lucky if he would stop for a bathroom break.  His personal best time Toronto - Montreal?  Four and a half hours.  Four. And. A. Half. Hours.  If I remember correctly, I don’t think we stopped at all during that trip.  He was very proud of himself.  Yep, jaunting the back roads and byways, taking the time to stop and smell the flowers, definitely works much better for me, even if it does take eleven hours.

Sofie, my constant and perfect travelling companion, twitches an eyebrow and opens one dark-sherry-brown eye.  Heaving a deep Jewish sigh, she stretches out the length of the car seat, watching me with the hope that we would soon

find a good place for a pit stop and a pee.  Maybe even a walk?  Her suede-like tongue gives my sweaty hand a few desultory licks and then almost bonelessly, she kind of just melts into a ball of white cotton and settles back into snooze mode.  I smile and say, “It’ll be good to get home, eh Sofie, and sleep in our own bed?”  Her tail gives a short wag and I know she agrees with me.

  

A rescued Coton du Tulear, she came into my life in November of ’08 - a year of turmoil and major changes in my once tranquil life.  As the miles pass under strumming rubber, I think about the life Sofie endured at a puppy mill, before being taken into care, first by a rescue organization in Ohio, then shipped across the border into foster care by a vet and his family in Brighton, Ontario.   What a trembling, submissive creature she was back then.  But I digress…

The miles unfold, one after the other, as the sun beats down.  Gosh, what I wouldn’t do for some shade.  Even with my sunglasses on, I squint.  Squinting causes wrinkles and at my age, I think I’ve met my quota.  Crossing over the border back into my own ‘country’, Ontario, I immediately feel so much closer to home, although most of the drive is still in front of me.  Following the shore of Lake St. Francis, the day shines with a vibrancy that fills me with a feeling of peace, contentment and joie de vivre!  Ah, joie de vivre, my three days in La Belle Province have obviously influenced my thought process.  It is said that the French have a way with words and the phrase encompasses my entire being – joy of life!

As I follow the road along The Waterfront Trail, we come close to marshy wetlands and I inhale the soggy scent of decaying water plants, drowned trees and eau du waterfowl.  I sometimes get a whiff of salty air.  I know that I’m surrounded by fresh water, but my brain creates a scent I always associate with seemingly endless bodies of water - briny ocean air, and it fits.  Colourful, triangular sheets dot the horizon, as sailboats skim the water’s surface, tacking to and fro, finding the zephyr, which keeps them going just a little while longer. 

I tootle into the outskirts of Cornwall, a town whose signs I’ve passed hundreds of times on my multitude of trips to and from Montreal.  I’ve never stopped there, though, to smell the coffee and I was ready for my second cup of the day.

By Blanchardb at English Wikipedia

My GPS bleats, uni-focused in getting me from Point A to Point B, which reminds me of The Ex.  And, boy, you better not detour in between A & B, because it’ll have you driving .08 miles to make a U-turn and recalculating until it drives you mad and you do what it says, just to shut it up.  Or turn the volume off, which I do. 

              

Driving into the town proper, I get caught up in the bustling Tuesday morning commute, the first day back to work for most people after a long weekend.  Aimlessly, I follow the crowd, hoping someone will lead me to a decent cup of Joe and a clean bathroom.  Not paying very much attention to my route, I notice that the very high bridge, which I have been flanking, is now suddenly in front of me, with a sign pointing ‘thataway’, To U.S.A.  Uh-oh.     

      

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