BLOG: Rough road ahead
By Aaron Yeager, Staff Writer
October 24, 2007 | 4:05 p.m.
While far less taxing than my last foray, the journey to Chauncey was a creature in itself.
Before I proceed any further, however, I want to explain what I'm trying to do with this blog. Hunker down, now, and listen close.
Ohio has an identity. Many take this state for granted. I've heard it called the "armpit of America" by people in other states. Even I have found it quite easy to discount the state, as it seems so outwardly vacuous and mediocre. Beyond these shallow observations, however, there is more at work than appears.
Of a fictional town in Ohio, author Sherwood Anderson once wrote, "Many people must live and die alone, even in Winesburg."
Small towns are where the soul of Ohio is most apparent. For it is in these solitary outposts that people become rooted like the nearby crops, confining all their fears, desires, misgivings and happiness to two square miles and often never speaking of much of it.
Of course, this is all outsider's speculation, but I can't help feeling affected by the mystique of a place that seems to be a world within itself.
Chauncey (pronounced "Chance-y," like the Pokemon) was no exception, though reaching it was a grand ordeal, as is to be expected. It did help, however, that I actually brought food and water this time. I also tried to avoid getting lost by taking the bike path, but that was pretty much in vain.
Somewhere along the way, I heard the snarl of what I thought were dozens of chainsaws across the river, leading me to believe that Chauncey was some sort of clandestine logging town. Instead, what greeted my glance was nothing short of a motocross track. Crossing a covered bridge, I emerged somewhere near Movies 10 and pulled into a housing lot with a giant sign that read "Jesus knows me, this I love." Unfazed, I asked for directions to Chauncey.
Riding beside Rt. 33, I found a second deer carcass, its head cleaved cleanly and perhaps now duly adorning a fireplace. Farther down, the sign for the Fast Traxx motocross arena beckoned. I acquiesced, heaving my bike over its fence and proceeding tentatively. The track itself is none too tame-- it's undoubtedly the real thing. The riders, however, seemed completely nonplussed.
Andrew Lipinski, one of the riders, drives all the way from the Columbus area to practice at the track. He's broken "eight or nine" bones for the sport and races regularly. Levi Keller, another rider, is 11 years old.
After getting my fill of fatalistic dirt biking, I made my way to my true destination. Unlike New Marshfield, all of Chauncey's roads were paved, and signs of life abounded. Hell, the gas station in the middle of town made it almost suburban.
Unfortunately, though, like New Marshfield, Chauncey lacked a local dining establishment. Disappointed, I headed to the next-best alternative-- Cee Dee's, a drive-through mini-mart/deli-stravaganza.
Obviously flustered by the ludicrousness of her job, the cashier turned from the drive-in window and asked me what I wanted. Inadvertently glancing at the "I love mom" tattoo above her breast, I asked the cashier for two ham salad sandwiches, which I thought sounded decent until I realized I had ordered two ham salad sandwiches.
Regardless, I squatted behind a dumpster and heaved a sigh of relief: I had obtained food, this time not wandering for ages and resorting to begging. For a half hour, I alternated between wolfing down my slop and violently darting back and forth to avoid bees, conveying the crazed outsider image I was hoping for.
Past the VFW and volunteer fire department, I came upon a woman knitting steadfastly on her porch swing, flanked by kittens. Her name was Gleneta Tankhorn, and she has lived in the Chauncey-Plains area her whole life, raising two daughters and having lost two sons to heart complications.
Genial and self-possessed, Tankhorn explained that the blanket she was knitting was "blue and pink, all mixed" because the sex of her friend's baby hadn't been revealed yet. As birds began shrieking in unison, Tankhorn expressed perplexity at their meeting to sing in a nearby tree everyday at 2 p.m. and then promptly "shutting up" two hours later.
After being called, Tankhorn's boyfriend, Bob Solomon, emerged out of their trailer with difficulty, a long, prominent scar arching down his leg from knee surgery. During the Vietnam War, Solomon served as a gunner's mate, working on guns and missiles "from .22 [inches] to 16 feet" long.
While Solomon supported President Johnson and the war in general, he and Gleneta repeatedly criticized President Bush and the ongoing Iraq War.
"In Vietnam we were fighting for justice-- so that South Vietnam could be free-- but in Iraq, we're fighting for oil," Solomon said.
This point came as a surprise to me, as I'm accustomed to the whole "Iraq is the new Vietnam" spiel. I then began to wonder how many countless young men from Chauncey or any other small, poorer town have recently left to fight out of financial necessity.I imagine when they leave it must be like those birds: you see them around town, you hear their car radios as they pass by-- perhaps you complain about the noise-- but sooner or later, the cars disappear. And then all you have is silence.
To paraphrase Sylvia Plath, It's not the silence of silence. It's their silence.
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