Ghost Riders

Wynoose Store (Photo rights reserved by Shugacan's)

 

You've seen them. Ramshackle country store buildings clinging to a dilapidated front porch, windows shuttered or blind with dark and dusty panes, the clapboard of their facade loose and slipping, or missing. They are part of the ubiquitous landscape of a drive through the country and the remnants of an old rural community. But more and more are beginning to fall victim to new construction, new gardens, or merged into crop fields. Or they just fall. Period.

Every drive from the north back to Mt. Erie takes me past the Wynoose Store. Usually I drive by without giving it much notice. But occasionally a spectre from the past reaches out to grab my memory, causing me to stop and see what may be invisible to everyone else. 

Next time you go by, slow down and have a look. If you squint your eyes just right you can see a shimmer of the 1970s and a bunch of kids in their early teens sitting astride their motorcycles. A lot of Levi and Jordache jeans, "Keep On Truckin'" t-shirts, aviator sunglasses, and feathered hair going on. Not sure there's a driver's license among them. But that's ok, because they're rebels, with a super-fine sprinkling of dust on their faces from traveling the dirt and gravel roads of the countryside, which has also left a fine grit in their teeth. They laugh and swagger their way to the storefront, disappearing in dazzling sunlight, then reappearing as ghosts in the shadows of the covered porch as they enter the cool darkness of the store. 

This place has stood there for as long as they can remember, nestled among the houses and farms that swaddle the churches and chowder grounds of an already-old, wooded riverside community. Their boot-clad feet on its worn, wide-planked floor announce their arrival, as does their snickers and giggles, and a few macho throat clearing coughs from the boys. Their hands reach into the icy water of the Coca-Cola soda cooler just inside the door, find a bottle, then pick through the few aisles of dry goods and foodstuffs to find peanuts and potato chips. A few in the gang buy a bologna sandwich at the counter, then nod begrudgingly yet respectfully at the old men who sit around a table at the back, smoking their Camel cigarettes, Swisher Sweets and pipes, swigging coffee from heavy mugs. Dust motes fall like snow and compete for space with smoke tendrils in the sunbeams that shine through the window behind the lounging men. 

The kids turn their backs to the old men and smirk as they walk away, while the old men do the same - a few spitting chew tobacco into a nearby rusted coffee can. "Kids," says an old man as he shakes his head and chuckles. "Old people," say the cool kids as they roll their eyes and out the door. They climb on their bikes, kickstarting the rest of the afternoon. They're not sure where they're going, these boys and girls of the 70s, but as they spin off down the road they know wherever it is, it's certainly nothing the old-timers can appreciate. Some girls ride behind boys, their arms wrapped around the driver's waist, their faces laid caressingly against warm backs. Other girls ride solo, including that white blonde, sunburned chick on the beat-up silver Honda. This is typically where she gets left behind, cursing as she kicks and kicks and kicks to start that old bike. 

In fact, I think she was there in the shadows of the porch when I last stopped and snapped a photo, peering at me over her reflector shades and smirking her crooked smile. And the autumnal wind that blew across the road carried this sound ... "Keep on truckin' ... old-timer."

(Content copyright of Leandra Sullivan/Shugacan's)

Day 1: I am grateful for my firstborn child, my son Kyle. Growing up was kind of tough for him and I must say he turned out remarkably well considering all the circumstances. Awesome, in fact. We sort of grew up together, as I was young, immature and stubborn when he came into my life. I made a lot of mistakes and I am thankful he stuck with me - tho he had little choice. He also made really good scrambled eggs from age 5, and that came in pretty darn handy.

I am thankful for my younger son Jay, aka Jaybird, Birdman or simply, 'The Bird.'

Jay was born healthy, normal and screaming. In fact I think he was furious he couldn't stay in utero. The difference between he and Kyle's hospital nursery photos is comical. Kyle, with his pointy head (forceps), was pale and pink with eyes gently closed, mouth peaceful and content, and a little finger pointed in the air like E.T. Jay? Round, red face, eyes squeezed shut in rage, clenched fists in the air, mouth open in a tribal scream. Totally different newborn; he was a demanding child upon exit from my body. In fact, he yelled so much and so distinctly that I heard (just above his wailing) a post-delivery mom shuffle by in the hallway say 'There's that Jay again.' He's been that way ever since.

Jay had a complete cardio/pulmonary arrest at five weeks of age, just a few days after his first check-up when he was proclaimed perfect and healthy. We lived just a few blocks from a hospital; I drove like a NASCAR driver while the boys' dad gave Jay CPR. The ER people must have known by the way I screamed to the entrance that there was a serious issue at hand - they were rushing toward us as we opened our doors. But then I have always recalled that time in snapshot moments - his little body, the ER staff rushing at us, tubes and wires, watching a helicopter lift into the air with him inside, not knowing if he would be alive when we arrived in St. Louis. Physicians defined the event as SIDS, and Jay suffered severe brain damage from lack of oxygen.

One could write reams on the experience of raising a child with severe and multiple disabilities, but that's true of child rearing, period. I won't task you with details. And being disabled is not necessarily what defines Jay - but it is silly and naive to say it doesn't play a huge role in who he is. And while I wish more than anything this had not happened to him and that he never had a moment of pain and confusion in his life, still I am thankful for every wonderful and every horrible moment we have shared, and what he has taught me about what is truly a 'quality' life. He is a unique individual with a vibrant (oh, is he vibrant), loving and fun personality.

There was a time when I devoted every moment of my life to Jay, now I don't see him enough. He lives in Champaign where he receives very good and specialized care, and able to participate in activities that aren't so available in my neck of the woods. Hopefully his caregivers are thankful for him as well, aside from when he's yelling. Sometimes when I walk down the hallway of his residence toward the sound of voice I still hear someone shuffle by and say 'There's that Jay again.'

Day 3: I am thankful for Tollhouse Chocolate Chip Cookies. Seriously so. Those things matter people.

Day 4: I am thankful for my job. Not everyone has one.

Day 5: I am thankful for my Mom. She is a tiny, quiet gal from Montana who left her people, wrapped in the arms of a good-looking boy with chestnut hair and an ornery, crooked grin from the wooded depths of southern Illinois. She bore him three daughters and worked hard to make a loving home. She spent years helping him build their dream home even deeper in the woods near the Fox River. She then worked hard to support them all as her love suffered and slowly died from a malignant brain tumor. She went a little crazy for a while perhaps as she watched her world spin out of control but worked hard to pull it together and got a little feisty as a result. She watched her babies have babies and become the best gramma ever. We, of course have put her through our own brand of hell, as loving children do, but she stuck with us regardless of the sacrifice to herself. She gave us a few health scares this year, but as always, she has rallied and back to running the roads near the Wynoose Bottoms.

But she's always had a little flicker in her eyes that looks like Montana.

Day 6: I am thankful for a dry, warm place to live. Mark has a fire crackling in the wood stove and I am drinking tea with pineapple mint while Bella the annoying three-legged feline purrs near my feet on the sofa. (She's not annoying because she has three legs, but because she uses all three paws and their claws to flex-knead-flex her talons thru my holiday jam pants into my flesh. I'm too damned lazy to do anything about it other than gasp-clench-release. This is a very long paragraphed 'aside.' Sorry.)

I, of course, live in a room just like this one. As long as I have this iPhone in front of my face with this photo then this is the reality I can convince myself of.

Seriously folks, I am thankful for what I have. I hope you are as well.

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved