Travel Sized Bites.
A selection of short stories submitted by visitors to the site between 500-1000 words
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corwynne lewis made me jump
By Author: Paul Carter
E-mail: paul@carterdean.freeserve.co.uk
Submitted on Wednesday 29th December 1999
Corwynne Lewis made me jump. He had materialised Kirk like, silent as a spectre, close alongside the van, parked in the high sage dessert, some miles south east of Bend, Oregon. I’d chosen the spot carefully, a discreet quarter mile off the highway, slightly hidden and under shade trees. Starbucks had just brewed. Some embarrassingly old Hank Williams played on the cassette. More surprisingly, Corwynne was immaculately dressed, shirt, tie, the full 8½ yards. Lovely welcoming smile, was one of my first impressions.
I didn’t know he was a Mormon at first, but there were strong suspicions. All teeth and pleasantness, he introduced himself and, with a sweep of his hand, his family, standing by their people mover back along Highway 20. Their luxurious and air conditioned machine had given up the ghost just as Lynne, his wife, had spotted my 0 Chevrolet van basking in the July shade on this the 6th consecutive day up in the 100’s. Lynne too was in her mid 40’s, a trim and attractive woman with a likewise welcoming smile. The seven children were indeed hers, a further seven having left home. Suspicions strengthened, but it is bad form to come right out and ask strangers their religion. Besides, we had to get the family out of the heat. Although they still looked cool, it wouldn’t be long before the midday sun started to change things. Apart from ourselves, nothing stirred. No breeze, sage sand and rock as far as the eye could see, heady smells, heat and silence. The thinking person’s siesta time, I thought.
The imaginatively named Corwynne Lewis junior managed to flag down a rare passing motorist. Corwynne senior called the AAA on a borrowed mobile, which seemed to take a considerable time, codes and pass numbers, awaiting verification, that type of thing. The phone owner (thank you whoever you are) didn’t seem to mind his mounting bill, and wished us good luck before drawing away, last seen as a shimmering speck on the horizon. We were to be rescued within 20 minutes, which I thought was pretty impressive. From being stranded 20 miles from the nearest anything to the safety of a wrecking truck in just a fraction of an hour. Wish I could afford one of those mobile jobbers. But then, on reflection, it has been be no real hardship being stranded in the van, as indeed had happened on two or three occasions. I was about to say several occasions, but that would be unfair to the vehicle which, over the last 100,000 miles, has become almost home to a travelling Brit.
First off, the van offers a degree of shade and comfort lacking in cars, and with the side door open, ample opportunity for fresh air. There’s room to stretch out on the oh so comfy bed, a cupboard full of food, a camping stove, makeshift but practical washing facilities. A bookcase, full of unread tomes, the Fender with practice amp, a small desk, letters to write home. Blue, dare I say it, shag pile carpet to walls and floor, woody ceiling with matching furniture ( red tag sale at a thrift store). Campfire wood, cigars and wine, audio tapes. Enough tools and spares, neatly packed, for all but the most comprehensive of engine rebuilds. No siree, mechanical breakdown holds little fear for this travel addict.
It was, in fact, more like half an hour before the truck arrived, by which time the Lewis family and I had become good friends. They were on their way to Salt Lake City (!) for the annual family reunion, their people carrier choked full as a bowl with a delicious selection of home made goodies for mum to magically produce. Further, it was Corwynne juniors 18th birthday. Cake was to be involved. Please, call me CJ.
Somehow, only dad rode in the wrecker, and I ferried eight Lewis’ in the ‘max seating five’ van back towards Bend. The family arranged themselves into a natural choir shape, Lynne sitting hesitantly. Before long, they broke into hymn, which did nothing the concentration, 5.7 ancient litres struggling to keep up with the speeding Corwynne. CJ sat up front with me, and we talked further, as much as road noise and choral practice would allow. He was a member of the B.S.A., which proved confusing at first, until it dawned on me that he was talking about the Boy Scouts of America, not the once famous motorcycle. Next year he would be going to a business college in Salt Lake, as all his older brothers had. Sisters, it transpired, were not particularly encouraged to a career. They were, indeed, Mormons. The dust, flies and heat of the day filled the cab.
After the wide-open emptiness of the desert, the relatively crowded streets of Bend seemed difficult to negotiate. Chasing the stricken people carrier across a particularly busy intersection on to the forecourt of the mechanic shop, singing rather abruptly stopped. Prayer time? Whilst the mechanic assessed the damage on the Lewismobile, we picnicked spontaneously by the Deschutes river curving through one of the parks in the aptly named Bend.
Home made bread, CJ’s cake, shade, grass and a cooling river. I brushed the crumbs from my mouth as Lynne said grace, giving thanks to the almighty for placing me in the exact spot chosen for their breakdown. Mysterious ways indeed.... Between cakes and sandwiches, fresh fruit and cheeses, Lynne explained that she had entranced, and so entrapped Corwynne with the aroma of her baking (although you can bet there was more to it than that). Store bought bread and pastries in America were by and large, she explained, not worth unwrapping. Although the Little Debbie Cakes did represent good dollar value. Mischievously I suggested she could have saved herself a lot of needless kneading with the help of aerosol cans of baking fragrance, as used at a supermarket near you. How we laughed. Tea or coffee was not on the menu.
It was a scene of idyllic happiness. The youngsters frolicking on the riverbank, causing despair and perturbation amongst the ducks. CJ reading Arthur Conan Doyle. Dad snoozing on the grass. Mum tidying and packing the picnic paraphernalia as the sun began to release its grip in the day. Corwynne the older had booked a Motel for the night, and their car would have a new petrol pump fitted before morning. It was time to move on. "Let’s Go" suggested the Deschutes National Forrest along Lakes Highway, just west of Bend, was a likely place to camp.
Some days, possibly weeks, later on the same road trip from Seattle to Key West, I was to help two further stranded motorists: A Harley rider in need of an Alan key, and a lady lost on the loneliest road in America, Highway 50 in Nevada. And never the hint of a song.