We left Springfield with two thousand dollars in travel checks and five hundred dollars in cash. The spinning bottle pointed east when it stopped. One of Carol's friends knew the owner of a radio station in Stamford Connecticut. So, that became our destination. We did not personally know anyone in that city. But the words we read in the full color brochures about the city from their tourist bureau described the essentials we wanted in our life. A great community life, good place to work and raise a family. The pictures showed happy people doing things in nice looking places.
August 2, 1986 was a usual bright hot humid central Illinois’ day. Our apartment, at least until the end of the day, was bare except for two boxes Carol was packing in the middle of the living room. They were filled with sheets, pillow cases, matching towels, washcloths and table place mats. The car was already sagging heavy. I figured the boxes would take up space and add more weight. I questioned taking those things. We could get those things wherever we decide to settle down.
She had a look on her faced that served notice there would be no discussion as she said, "I go, they go." I didn't argue. We didn’t need to add any more anxiety to leaving. After carrying one of the boxes to the car she told me her grandmother taught her to take personal stuff with you in the car when you move. No matter what happens you would be able to wash your body and sleep on your sheets. It was a way of carrying home with us. I smiled, and took the other box to the car.
Our car, a Peugeot 505, was a four cylinder, five speed automatic French car designed to be a luxury four-door sport's car. The smallest car I have ever owned. The gas mileage was great. The car's small interior would be our transportation, home and storage space until we found a place to live.
Finally, the apartment was empty and the car loaded. The bare rooms held nothing personal except our memories. Stripped of personality, the rooms seemed larger. My mind could see the colors and images that used to fill the spaces, but each blink of my eyes erased them leaving dark vacant places. Talking about leaving a place is a thought. Walking out the door of your home, knowing you are not going to return is a feeling of lost. The closing of the apartment door was like the lid of a casket coming down, the final act to a life. Our home was now just a collection of rooms for strangers to rent.
Our first stop, Carol's mother's house. She lived on the east side of Springfield, the black side of town, located across the railroad tracks at Tenth Street.
Her mother was a light skin, small frame woman witty and graceful with a smile on her face most of the time. Not this time though. Neither she nor my mother could understand why two smart people like us would do something so crazy. We had heard the word crazy a lot during the weeks before we left.
Finally, we were on Route 72 heading to Decatur. We had declined our Springfield's family and friends offers to spend the night with them. Since we were out of our home, we decided to hit the road rather than engage in long painful good-byes with them. We would spend the night in Decatur, about thirty miles east of Springfield with old friends of Carol. They would call us crazy, but feed and put us up for the night with few questions, and send us off with love.
Decatur was having a street fair downtown. We embraced the festive mood of the street fair as the first event of our adventure. We ate, drank and danced in the street like it was a going away party just for us.
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