Travels with Wally Chapstick and Company
The Westward Excursion of 1988
Dearest Mother,
I thought it was about time I gave you a copy of this journal. And seeing that it’s Christmas, what better gift to give? Anyway. I read over parts during the last few days — (and damn if they’re not good.) What an incredible experience! That’s something — special. You know what that something is: the love of life.
Is there a better gift?
Love always,
Walter — December 25, 1989
The General Prologue
Greetings, dear reader,
You settle down for the night; a warm shawl wraps around your body; you stuff a comfy pillow behind your back. A fresh cup of brewed tea resides close for more warmth. There is nothing on television. The house is quiet. The sounds of the wind laugh against the windows. Then, you reach across the table.
What’s this rather large book? Was it there yesterday? Who placed it there? I did. It’s called “Travels with Wally Chapstick and Company: The Westward Excursion of 1988.”
That’s strange, you wonder.
Let me be the first to congratulate you! Please pay no mind to my age. I am, alas, only twenty, but an immature twenty. May I take this opportunity to introduce myself.
My name is Walter Bowne. I chose the title for three reasons. My good friend, Alec Mento, first coined my “street name” during our junior year of high school in Southern New Jersey. He also called me, not without a hint of irony or sarcasm, a “rogue white male.”
The “Chapstick” appellation was meant to mean “a person who does just about everything.” It was a blatant take-off of the Suzy Chapstick commercials back in the 1970s.
The commercial caters to those with many hobbies and interests.
Secondly, I remembered John Steinbeck’s memoir Travels With Charley. Like his excursion out west with his dog, I went West with my family — my mother, Susan, my brother Dave, and my sister Noelle, for three weeks. We’re all three years apart. Yes. My mom birthed me at three. So I stole Steinbeck’s title as an allusion to acquire readers, like you, and to appear “humorous,” “literary” and perhaps “pretentious.”
The last reason is, well, there is no other reason. Just two reasons. So sorry.
Allow me to briefly prepare the reader for what you will soon find out for yourself after you have quickly passed over all this silly, self-indulgent “General Prologue” business, which no one reads anyway, right? In this journal, I have attempted to preserve the memories and the special moments that my family and I encountered in our three-week tour of the United States.
I was twenty. I am still twenty whenever I read this again.
The journal serves, I hope, as a reminder of what happened, after the dreamlike sequences of events of 1989 have passed away. It was composed, if I dare use that word in the same vein (vain) as Mozart, to look back to the past, glimpsing into the history for my children to read and their children, if children and grandchildren are in my future. So when potential grandchildren ask what my mother was like, I can gift-wrap this journal for them to read for themselves.
I have also tried to capture my feelings, attitudes, and memories. Most of the information is true, except for a few odds and ends and what Mark Twain would refer to as “truth stretchers.” However, I created the journal more to store memories and thoughts, than a mere collection of facts and data.
It is with happiness that I present my journal. I challenge and encourage the reader to travel. Many avenues of the unknown await the unsuspecting adventurer. Doors will open, like perception, without LSD, which you never knew existed.
First, however, you must open the door. Do you dare open a door? Cross those thresholds. Eat peaches? Hidden secrets and beauty surround us all.
Beauty not only lies in the Teton Mountain range, or running trout streams, or within the ruins of ancient civilizations; the real beauty, dare I say it, rests within yourself.
May the beauty you find mirror the beauty you possess.
Of course, I could rattle on much longer, but I’ll let this journal of youth speak for itself. In closing, let me leave you with the words of John Keats, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
I hope this journal is such a thing. May it remain, also, forever.
Walter Bowne. February 1989. “Of wobbly mind and rotund body”
Day One — June 23rd, 1988 Voorhees, New Jersey to Huron, Ohio
I rolled over half asleep on the rec room couch. The monotonous drone of the air conditioning hummed in my ear. I was on the verge of falling back asleep when, suddenly, a bright light flashed. A slamming door followed. The faint outline of my mother in blue was printed across the back of my closed eyes.
My distant dreams vanished. The Mom pulled the covers off. “It’s time to move your bones and hit the road!” she said.
The beauty of the Wild West, after all, would not parade through our home. That day had finally arrived.
The three children, yours truly, Wally Chapstick, 19, my brother Dave, 16, and sister Noelle, 13, quickly packed up the pop-up camper. We left Voorhees, New Jersey by seven on the dot.
My mom runs a tight ship.
We traveled Route 70 across the Ben Franklin Bridge and entered Philadelphia. Despite the warnings, and our knowledge of construction on the infamous Schuylkill Expressway, also known as the Short Kill, we, fortunately, encountered no traffic.
The morning drive was pleasant as we listened to our favorite morning station WMMR. We headed toward the junction of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and then turned Due West.
Our spirits were high as the electricity tingled inside The Mom’s red Ford Aerostar minivan. I called it the Aardvark Van. Even though, at first, I had mixed feelings, I had been looking forward to the three-week trip.
I was missing three weeks of pay at the Holiday Inn where I worked as a busboy and room service waiter. But it would be a time to escape from responsibility, the hassle, the routine of daily life, and the pressures of living in hectic South Jersey. I hoped the excursion West would allow some time to think about myself and my life.
Doesn’t everyone need that time to iron creases and wrinkles?
The Mom decided not to eat breakfast at home but rather on the road. The Burger King on the Turnpike stopped breakfast at 9:30. Not in the mood for lunch, we ate fruit and juice at a picnic table. By one o’clock we stopped for lunch at a rest area and ate ham and cheese sandwiches, barbecued Pringles, and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Oh, Little Debbie!
The restrooms had laser toilets. No need to flush! You step away, it flushes! Isn’t modern technology incredible?
The ride along the Pennsylvania Turnpike was relaxing and enjoyable. Although familiar, the rolling hills and spacious meadows of Pennsylvania were always pleasant, with neatly plotted and well-kept homesteads and farms.
We passed through Amish Country. Just a little past Harrisburg, the highway grew steadily steeper, the curves sharper. The Mom grew tired. Dave and Noelle were asleep. She surrendered the captain’s chair to me.
It felt great to be behind the wheel. That was one big step towards being a man and maybe, one day, a dad with his own family.
We passed the suburbs of Pittsburgh and continued towards Ohio. We had planned to camp and spend the first night somewhere by Lake Erie. By mid-afternoon, we received our ticket for the Ohio Turnpike. The 65 mph speed limit surprised me. I could now feel safer and make better time.
Was that an irony?
Around five o’clock, we searched for nearby campgrounds. Along the way, we viewed Lake Erie. The AAA Camping Book listed a few camping areas. We arrived at the Huron River Valley Campground at 6:30 and popped up our Sun-Lite camper.
It was Saturday. The marina was filled with outboard and inboard motorboats. The Huron River led to Lake Erie. Most of the campers stayed all summer with their boats.
The Mom prepared a dinner of Salisbury steak, string beans, and applesauce. After KP duty, we strolled along the muddy banks of the Huron River. A lady camping next to us had an adorable black kitten. She said that Huron was the home of Thomas Edison.
Wow. I didn’t know that.
After playing a short game of Trivia Pursuit, we went to bed fairly early. We still had two days, after all, of straight driving before we reached our first destination — the Badlands of South Dakota.
More adventures coming! Look for these Wally Chapstick stories on The Masterpiece:
- Day 2: The Traveling Blues Ends with Talentless Bums
- Day 3: The Magicless Normalcy of The Corn Palace, and Other Notables from Iowa
- Day 4: Thousands of Stars Interrupt ‘Rocky’ in The Black Hills of South Dakota
- Day 5: Wonders of Childhood Rediscovered on a Mountain Hike
- Day 6: When Storm Clouds Turn Into The Big Horn Mountains
- Day 7: Savory Sulfur — the Armpit Incense of an Earth Intense