Process Essay

To paraphrase an old Dick Curliss song, there’s a stretch of “road” up north in Maine…but it’s not the Haynesville woods.  It’s Route 15, Charleston Hill, to be exact.  My earliest memories of that hill were when my family would drive to Bangor from Dover-Foxcroft.  There was an Air Force base at the top of the hill, that is now a correctional facility.  I remember looking out the window, watching the scenery go by.  It’s a whole different experience watching out the window, without a care in the world.  That’s because someone else is driving.  But for the last 15 years, I have been the one driving.  I drive back and forth to work every day; through rain and snow and gloom of night.  And it’s not always fun.  Sometimes I am lost in thought as I make the same tedious trip.  Some days I pray that I will make it home in one piece.  And some days I’m just irritated at the condition of the road.  But always the road stretches before me and takes me where I must go.

When I had cancer, I rode back and forth to work by myself.  It was a peaceful ride and I had a chance to reflect and think about how I would get through another day.  I liked to listen to music on my commute and because of my condition, not just any song would do.  For example, I couldn’t listen to Mike and the Mechanics’ “Living Years”.  It was too melancholy and I would cry when the leader singer sang “I wasn’t there that morning when my father passed away.”  Too close to my situation.  But for some reason, I loved Soundgarden’s “Black-hole Sun”.  I belted that out at the top of my lungs, “Black-hole Sun, won’t you come, and wash away the rain?”  That ride down Charleston hill was cathartic as I sped up and down the hill each day.

Some days weren’t so serene. When the Governor would finally decide to close the government offices in a snowstorm, I had a long drive ahead.  And Charleston hill was the worst of it.  As I would approach the pinnacle, I would say a silent prayer that God would help me reach the bottom alive.  I began my ascent, feeling all the world like the jaws of hell were waiting for me at the bottom.  The snow would swirl with blinding fury as I tried to keep from hurtling down the hill.  I could only use the breaks so much before I would begin to skid, so it was a delicate dance of break, let off, break, let off.  Finally I reached the bottom of the hill, shaky, but alive. 

There are days when the weather is clear and the sun is bright, but Charleston Hill maddens me.  A couple years ago, the road crew spread new pavement over the hill and almost into Corinth.  But that didn’t last long.  With the old heave-ho, Jack Frost lifted the asphalt into something resembling a washboard.  As I climb the hill and proceed down the other side, I am jarred by the ripples that make up the road.  Hope my shocks hold out, because there is no way to avoid them.  I can’t drive in the breakdown lane, well I could but the swells are still there. 

But Charleston Hill is the way I go to work.  It’s my road home.  It’s my solace when I need privacy, it’s my highway to hell.  It plays a big part in my life and will continue for as long as I travel.  I’ve begun to see Charleston Hill as an essential part of my day, when I can reflect and re-energize as I go to work and come back home.