Today began my annual trek from Mississippi to Indiana. In my new position, the school year doesn't end as neatly as it did when I was not an administrator, but I have managed to get away still the first week in June. As busy as I was, however, tying up loose ends, I had only a couple of hours to look for a nice play to stay overnight--as I had decided before taking off that I would not drive straight through. I've done it far too many times, and my constitution is not, it seems to me, better for it.
I looked online for a bed and breakfast somewhere between northern Kentucky and Southern Illinois. I must have looked at rooms in at least a dozen, but with the exception of those in Paducah, which seem very interesting, some even exquisite, others seemed too fru fru. I am really not that much into Victorian. It can be sweet but is usually not restrained enough for my taste. I did find one B&B in Harrisburg, Illinois--the Lafayette Inn--but I called them, and their phone just rang and rang. When the time came for me to hit the road, Highway 7 north out of Mississippi, I had not yet found a room. This was a little discomforting. I feel a little less desperately out in the world by myself when I know ahead of time where I'll be laying my head for the night.
So, the plan then was to stop in Paducah, Kentucky--a town whose name I've known for years only because I've seen signs for it off of the interstates I've traveled. I also traveled through Paducah last year although from Highway 45 one does not see the city's downtown, which must be where the snazzy inns are located. Things did not go as planned. I got a phone call while I was driving through Paducah, and then I somehow wound up off 45 and on 60. Despite having navigation, I also carry a road atlas, and my car has a compass, which has saved me many, many times. So, I saw that 60 travels northwesterly, and since I was headed to Indiana... Besides that, 60 also connects to 91, which connects back to 45...
I've forgotten how long I was on 60, but I wasn't the least bit worried since I still had over a half tank of gas, having filled up in Jackson, Tennessee. I'm also not sure how long I was on 91, but somewhere along the way I saw a sign that said that trucks of a certain tonnage could not take the ferry. Ferry? I know what a ferry is, but this water vessel that takes people and vehicles across rivers is not a part of my experience, which is likely the reason why I, despite forewarning, didn't think about what the message to truckers meant.
The next thing I knew, the Blazer and I were in a line of cars and a big truck. A guy at the shore beckoned for me to go around the truck, and that's when the reality that my car and I were about to cross the Ohio River, not on a bridge but on a ferry, began to sink in. I did go around the truck, and the same fellow directed me to get behind another car, very snugly I might add. I was scared, honestly, I was, first of getting too close to the car in front of me and, then, that I was going to suffer some kind of cognitive dissonance from not adjusting my mind quickly enough to the fact that my car was moving without my having to press on the gas. I started to turn the car off but was unsure that that was the proper thing to do, so I left it on and hoped that automatic pilot would not kick in and instruct me to press on the gas pedal. In other words, I was just a few minutes shy of freaking out.
Of course, I managed to remain calm somehow, and on the other side of the river, I landed at Rock-in-the-Cave, which I have since learned is a major tourist site. There is a cave. I drove maybe a couple of blocks--can't really recall how far, could've been more--then saw a sign for a lodge. Yes! I turned a corner, went less than a quarter of a mile and entered a state park whose signage directed me to the cabins. There was a restaurant as well, and I entered there to ask about the cabins. The price was incredibly reasonable, but they were all booked. The clerk could only offer a full house for $165, and I'm glad to say that, not needing a washer and dryer and three bedrooms, I was not tempted to rent it for the night. Still, I regretted that the cabins weren't available; they are situated overlooking the water. I asked the clerk if he could recommend other lodging and he told me that there were two beds and breakfasts in Elizabethtown about thirteen miles away. At that point, I was even more stubbornly committed to not trying to reach Indiana; it was around 3:00, and I wasn't interested in driving in the dark or of arriving in town exhausted.
I got to Elizabethtown in maybe fifteen minutes and found the B&Bs pretty easily. One need only go toward the water. As the clerk had said, there are two right across the street from each other. I had no idea which to choose. I started toward the one and then turned toward the Rose Hotel, founded in 1812. There was a vacancy sign (as there was at the other), and when I entered the front door, with the look of the road on my face--the innkeeper smiled. He showed me the rooms that were available, and I chose the Sarah Room, which is very nice, with a sleigh bed situated in the corner, a lilac chenille spread covering the bed. The room is carpeted and furnished with simple antiques, like a wooden rocker and a wardrobe. There is a nice clawfoot tub as well, equipped with shower.
So, the room is very tranquil, and this of course is not the point of this blog post, but I enjoy telling the whole story because I think how I came to this place is important. After arriving here, actually, before arriving here I began to think about journeys of our ancestors. The thing is I crossed at least two other rivers, and since I haven't checked my atlas I'm actually not sure that I wasn't crossing the same river in different places. I imagine that one of those rivers was the Little Wabash, which if I recall correctly figures in that awful story of the unsuccessful escape attempt by William Still's brother. But, more to the point, how can I stay at the historic Rose Hotel, which was open and running during the era of slavery, and not think about slaves who lived just across the river in Kentucky and hoped against hope one day to be able to cross the river to freedom. I didn't see any literature to this effect when I checked in. Maybe I will find some tomorrow. Breakfast is at 8:30. I will be sure to ask then.
If there is not such history, or if there is, but it has not been told, then I expect I'll be doing some writing on this. All day, I had been thinking about my trip, how eccentric I am to keep taking this annual slow jog through the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. On one level, I am consciously covering the steps of freedomseekers, and yet I struggle greatly to even approximate feeling what they felt. I may have worried about getting loss, having mistakenly gotten off 45, but they worried about being caught and sent back. I felt a little unsafe getting so far off the beaten path, but they must have thought it wise to do just this. As I crossed the Ohio, I was afraid; this is true. The journey seemed to take a long time. I wanted to speed it up. I worried, irrationally, that we might somehow tip into the water. Maybe I had a moment, a visit, an alignment of sorts.
Finally, curious about the Rose Hotel, I of course Googled it when I got a chance, after having a lovely meal at a floating restaurant that can be seen from the hotel. One website was of ghost-trackers. I didn't click on it. The innkeeper had earlier told me to call "if anything happens." Her assurances that nothing would did not erase the suspicion she had already aroused in me. From that point on, I pretty much accepted that the hotel is haunted; how could it not be? It's 200 years old! I decided I would sleep with the bathroom light on. My mother has always said that ghosts cannot harm you; only people who are alive can harm you. I believe she is right, but I have come to accept that there are intersecting spheres, and I have no doubt that there are here at this beautiful hotel remnants of the one-time presence of our ancestors who may very well have taken refuge here.
