The road touring season (if there’s such a thing) is back for Switchback. As independent musicians, it goes like this: you get asked to play a pretty good gig somewhere. In this case, a gig on Dataw Island, South Carolina for a couple that are longtime family friends of Brian’s. Ted and Pat Mitchell had Switchback play some 15 years ago for their 75th birthday and 55th wedding anniversary on Dataw Island. It was a big family affair.
Their extended family became fans of our music and so when Ted reached out to have us play the “90/70” party, we couldn’t turn it down. In some ways, it was a chance for Brian to connect with his dad and uncles vicariously--being regaled with stories of exploits in Connecticut by Ted, who was Uncle Art FitzGerald’s pal and fellow keeper of their “miracle keg” of never emptying beer they kept stashed in Art’s “clubhouse” above the FitzGerald garage. The fact that the Mitchells were both turning 90 and celebrating 70 years of marriage wasn’t lost on us either. It was to be a historic event.
For months, a tour gets laid out around such a gig. We were going to route from Chicago and then to Cincinnati for a pub show at the Irish Heritage Center. Even that show had a family edge to it. Brian grew up in Cincinnati and his cousins would be on hand for the gig.
From there we would head out to North Carolina to play some retirement communities, visit a superfan, Maryellen Katarinis, who lives part of the year in Charlotte, explore some potential future venues there and then head down to Dataw Island. We built enough time for an opportunity to spend some time visiting Ted and Pat before the big event. All in all, a lot of road, but manageable.
Then Brian got a call from another longtime family friend. Ken Cozzi and his wife Pat, lived next to Brian’s late mom at a condo in Oak Park, Illinois. They became fans of our music through Brian’s mom and would attend our concerts at the performing arts centers in the area and the occasional condo-wide house concert we would put on. Pat had been fighting pancreatic cancer for six months and died on Easter Sunday. Ken called Brianand asked if we would play her funeral as that was one of her last requests. It turned out the funeral would occur halfway during the tour to South Carolina.
There are times when “no” is impossible. We had to cancel some shows and change our plans. We would drive from Chicago to Cincinnati, play the shows there, drive back to Chicago, play the funeral and turn immediately around to drive to South Carolina. All in all, it would be a run of some 2500 miles. To put it in perspective, just 300 miles shy of driving from the tip of Maine to the northwestern tip of Washington State.
Or, (not counting Brian’s 10 hours roundtrip to Chicago from Iowa) almost 40 hours behind the wheel of the van.
The road is all about traveling wisely: avoiding congestion, construction and obstructions. The occasional sleepy truck driver, speeding midnight yeehaws and inclement weather. Good pacing and timing are needed to make a trip manageable, plus a few guardian angels on overtime.
Heading to Cincinnati our first challenge was hitting a major pothole on DuSable Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. It was raining hard, visibility was bad. About four cars were pulled off to the side, victims of the same pothole. We smacked it hard and kept going, although we realized that something was wrong with the right front wheel. There was no time to stop. We gingerly drove the five hours to our gigs there in Cincinnati. The hands would shake on the steering wheel. A visit to a mechanic there revealed the right front tire’s belt had been broken by the crater. He was amazed we made it without a blowout. Chalk one up to the angels.
Thanks to Brian’s cousin Nancy, who just happened to be in town, we ended up using her Bronco as our shuttle car and staying over at her place for the night. Four new tires on the van the next day, we drove back up to Chicago, passing blooming redbud and dogwood trees.
The next day, we got back into the van and drove to Oak Park. There we set up for the funeral early, enjoying the quiet of the beautiful St. Giles church to rehearse and get our sound right. We were delighted to find that our friend Father Clem, (also a long-time Switchback fan) was officiating. It was a heartfelt and emotional service for Pat. Ken eulogized her Irish spirit, how even during her illness she was concerned about taking care of others who were taking care of her. He kept thanking everyone for being there for Pat and her family during Pat’s illness.
After the funeral, we asked Father Clem to give us absolution before we headed back on the road. “C’mon Clem,” I said. “No time for confession. You know we are sinners.” He laughed, gave us absolution and a blessing for the road. It felt good to have a few spiritual potholes filled before facing the ones in the pavement.
We came upon a horrific accident on I-70 outside of Indianapolis. Luckily for us it was in the west bound lane. A smashed semi, along with two other crumpled SUVs laid in awkward angles against each other in the falling rain.
We were fortunate to get to a hotel for the night in Knoxville, which allowed us to watch the Iowa women’s basketball team defeat LSU. It felt good to take a break and catch some sleep.
About five a.m., we headed south again. We had heard there was a lot of construction in the Smoky Mountains and our early departure ensured that we would avoid any delays. The workers were just arriving around Asheville, North Carolina, rolling tarps off newly poured concrete as we went by. A few hours later, it would be bumper to bumper.
We topped off the tank in St. Matthew, North Carolina. Next to us was a gentleman wearing a hoodie with the words “Gaelic Park, Chicago” on it. So we got to talking and it turned out he had worked there as an actor in an Irish theatrical ensemble. He was now living in North Carolina and was surprised that he was pumping gas next to an Irish band that had played Gaelic Park. It was one of those odd, but comforting coincidences on the road.
We finally arrived at Dataw Island with enough time to visit with Ted and Pat for a while. We set up our equipment at the golf club that had a magnificent view of the lowcountry marshland between the islands. It was low tide and the mudflats were minded by long legged egrets. Out on the lawn facing the flats were people playing a game croquet. They were all dressed in white outfits. A small murmur of conversation would be punctuated by the whack of the mallet on the ball. It felt very southern to me.
After our set up, we checked into our hotel in Beaufort for a couple hours of sleep. It was a bizarre experience. We were greeted at the front desk by an odd contraption. A white metal kiosk that had a screen at the top. There on the screen was the head of a clerk wearing a headset. Underneath the screen was a keypad. You had to give him your name, fiddle with some buttons on a pad to get your information correct and then slide your credit card. There was something very Orwellian about the transaction. It turned out the guy was handling some 20 hotels between Florida and North Carolina at the same time. It made me feel suspicious that if they were cutting costs by having one clerk for 20 hotels, what else were they cutting? Although the room was clean, it was very dated with 1960’s fabric art on the wall. An aroma of marijuana wafted down the hallway. We felt as if we were in some Woody Allen movie. Just in case, we packed our bags and took them with us to the gig.
Dataw island is an old plantation, now subdivided into winter residences. The ruins of the original manor still stood next to the golf club. It was interesting to note that once upon a time, the island would have been vast cotton fields, made possible by some human misery. Now the fields were long gone, replaced by the return of trees and elegant, expensive vacation homes all around. The ruins of one era, surrounded by the new era, joined together by privilege.
The trees around the manor ruins had long drapes of the Spanish moss. I decided to pick up a clump from the ground to bring home for Aine.
Getting ready for the show, I glanced out at the marsh, now more of a bay with high tide. A single dolphin surfaced just as I looked out. I marveled at how far away this all felt from Chicago. It made me wish to have a week to explore.
Brian and I struck up a conversation with the manager of the banquet hall, Johanna. Although she looked Irish with red hair, she was in fact part Portuguese and Puerto Rican. It turned out she had been adopted into a large NYPD- serving Irish family. She was a hard worker, as was her staff. We were surprised to learn she had given birth to 12 kids, two of whom were working for her at the event. She was divorced and remarried with her Marine husband adding even more to the brood by their new marriage and previous kids. Being a military wife, she had that experience of going with the flow. Her husband and their family transferred around the country. They were about to be transferred outside of Washington, D.C. For having 12 kids, she looked incredibly young. She was the epitome of grace under pressure. Since Brian and I came from equally big families, we gave her some CD’s of our music as a sign of respect.
Ted and Pat Mitchell are examples of 90 being the new 70. Both are quick witted, athletic and bursting with humor. Ted gave a hilarious speech, musing that his 90 year old wife would equal five 18 year old women. “Don’t think I couldn’t handle that,” he joked to his friends. Pat Mitchell must be one hell of a woman, I thought.
Their kids and grandkids all got up and danced when we started the music. Some of these kids all those years ago. We played non-stop for over 90 minutes and the floor never emptied of couples dancing. It was a wonderful picture of the various stages of life: awkward young girls, most likely their first time in heels hanging out with equally awkward boys, young couples dancing close and joyfully in love, older couples heading out for the slower songs, and those couples who could only hang just off the edge of the dancefloor, watching the goings on but dancing in their minds.
The evening was over by 10:30. Everyone was calling out to each other “see you at the 100-80!” It could possibly happen with two such people like Ted and Pat, I thought.
We packed the van and decided to drive non-stop back to Chicago. We both decided we didn’t want to head back to the hotel of the robot-clerk and marijuana party. Plus, we knew that we needed to cross all the Smoky Mountain road construction that night, when few people were on the road.
Surprisingly, a lot of cars were still on the road as we headed north. We surmised that it was traffic heading to see the eclipse.
When driving long-haul, you take turns. One guy will either knock out two hours or a half-tank of fuel, while the other guy sleeps. Off and on, nonstop through the night. There’s always a little bit of time to talk of course and time to listen to music. But most of the time, you drive in silence with your thoughts.
Always around three in the morning is when one has to be vigilant for other drivers who may be dangerously tired. I was grateful Brian volunteered for this shift, as I was tired myself. We had to avoid one semi that was slowly going back and forth over the centerline up in the mountains. Brian waited until the truck lurched over to the right and shot the van through the passing lane before the truck could lurch to the left.
I drove from Kentucky to Chicago so Brian could rest a bit before finishing the last leg solo to Iowa. Sunrise found us crossing the Kentucky River. The valley was a thick bed of dense river fog, snaking along the course of the river and through the hills. The half light made the land feel like we were back in time. Here too, were blooming redbud and dogwood. Pine trees popped out here and there. Brian remarked how it felt like Daniel Boone could be just over the next ridge. We crossed the Lewis and Clark bridge, which spanned the majestic Ohio River into Indiana. By now, the mountains were far behind.
Now, it was a matter of not rushing for the barn, but taking our time. I think a lot of drivers get anxious about getting to a destination. The straightaway of I-65 almost induces speeding. Even the truckers will take chances, pulling out at the last second into the passing lane to overtake a lumbering semi. That combination leads to horrible wrecks along this road. Another sobering car wreck greeted us heading home. Once again just outside of Indianapolis. The SUV smashed into some trees. It looks like it may have rolled, the windshield shattered and popped halfway out onto the grass. The demeanor of the state troopers and ambulance workers indicated that the person probably was killed. They stood by the wreck, conversing, an empty gurney waiting.
As we continued along, I thought about milestones and milestones. How this particular tour was all about destinations, arrivals and the journey necessary for such things. Celebrating life in death and the life before death. Knowing that such a trip is taking one’s life into one’s hands.
Milestones alter many things, even a tour for a band. It’s those odd twists and turns that milestone after milestone give us all the opportunity to enjoy being alive. The joy displayed at Pat Cozzo’s funeral and Pat and Ted Mitchell's birthday/anniversary celebration were two ends of two very long hauls on the road. And it brought home to me just how important it is to enjoy that road, all the quirks, the twists and turns, dangers and joy that each milestone brings.
READ MARTIN'S OTHER BLOG HERE.