Going Into the Field

Saturday, 9:00 a.m. Heading to Michigan City, Ind. from Fort Wayne, Ind.

The thermometer reads 12-degrees Fahrenheit, but more accurately, with windchill factored in, it's more like -12-degrees. It's snowing sideways and the van reeks of Aaron's large coffee. I am staring down at my water wishing it was a Full Throttle Fury.

I wish I was the driver: Aaron rarely follows speed limits, and he so kindly ripped off the driver-side mirror that had been dangling all week, thus negating any chance I will get behind the wheel. On the bright side, the passenger seat's heated. He's in rare form this morning. Everything is cause for an argument. I'm just irritated that we got a later start than I had planned. Okay, and I wanted the iPod charger, the atlas, and the Full Throttle. And, oh, to be the driver. As for him, I think my mere existence is annoying him. Or maybe it's my "Oh my GAWD!" as he occasionally swerves into the shoulder as he fiddles with my keychain/wallet. This new level of irritation conveniently began yesterday morning. Just in time to make this trip a joy.

Maybe Aaron doesn't quite understand how important punctuality is to me. Or how it came to be that way. In my family "Five minutes early is on time" just doesn't cut it. As a child, on road trips such as these, my father would wake me and my sister, Whitney, no later than 6:00 a.m. Urgency, impatience, anxiety, and I don't know what else were in my father's voice as he'd constantly remind us that we had to leave, that we were going to be late, that he was going to leave without us all. He must have really loathed those trips. Any trips, really. My mother would dart around, flustered and obviously irritated, yet wanting to please my father every time.

Did I mention that a one-mile drive to school counts as a trip? Wanting to avoid the rush, by the time I was in high school, I began riding my bike or walking to school. Alas, the punctuality bug had set in and became a part of who I was (and still am). I'd get to school as early as 6:30 a.m. and wait out the remaining hour and twenty minutes until classes began. There I was getting to places even earlier than my parents had...

Where is US-35 North? Apparently, it doesn't exist. How many times have I driven to Michigan City? And I still don't know how to get there. Haha.

We passed Wanatah (the birthplace of my great-great grandfather Robert Freyer), so I guess we'll take 421 instead. 421 is covered in over an inch of snow.