“Your turn to drive, dad!” That’s son Ian, and its 3:30am on Ohio Rt. 23. His 2-hour stint at the wheel being up, he’s eager to get into nap mode. I shake the sleep out of my head and take over, noting that it’s a nice night to drive, dry roads and light traffic. On schedule, we’ll be at the Ford Museum for its 9:30am opening.
A few months earlier I had offhandedly said to my three grown sons, and not for the first time, “gotta get you guys to the Ford Museum sometime.” The Dearborn, Michigan museum is one of the world’s best. For the uninitiated, it’s not all about cars; it is first and foremost a museum dedicated to all things related to America’s industrial revolution. Anyway, somehow –it borders on miraculous– I had reserved the boys for a few days after Christmas, busy schedules notwithstanding, and here we are.
Seven hours after our arrival we’re full of The Ford and navigating mid-town Detroit in route to the Motown Museum. On the way we’re awed at the burned-out warehouses, the abandoned apartment buildings, and the broken-down houses –indicators of some rough decades for the Motor City. At “Hitsville USA” we are regaled with tales of Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, The Jackson Five, and many more Motown artists who had their career start in the humble residence/studio on West Grand Boulevard.
It’s early the next morning and we’re headed to Toledo, Ohio to catch a visit to the National Museum of the Great Lakes, on Toledo’s Maumee Riverfront. Our cheap motel has provided us ‘bagged breakfasts,’ the contents of which get eaten along the way…”It’s not such a cheap motel after all!” I enthusiastically point out to my crew as we munch the muffins and bananas.
The maritime museum is right up my alley and the boys love it too. We get the gist, and more, of the place in a couple of hours and the nice girl at the desk (who gives my boys student discounts even though the knuckleheads had forgotten their student ID’s) refers us on to the Toledo Museum of Art.
Toledo is known as “the city of glass;” its glass-making heritage goes back to the founding of the city. The art museum –besides possessing a treasure trove of paintings– features a glass pavilion that plays host to glass-blowing/handling demonstrations, and exhibits of glassware through the centuries.
On the way out of Toledo town we swing by Tony Paco’s Cafe, a legendary joint, for a to-go order of their famous fried pickles. Man they are good, and go well with our cheese and crackers. On to our next critical date with destiny: Cleveland.
On the drive along the Lake Erie shoreline the guys and I discuss the deeper issues of life such as, “where will we spend the night?” Hmmm, the Days Inn reservation is as close as the iPhone, but of immediate import is to navigate directly to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, find a parking place and hit the museum hard until closing time at 9:00PM. Ian is at the wheel and deftly weaves the boxy little Honda Element through the 5:00 C-town traffic to get us to a sweet parking spot near the museum, at which point we grab Clif Bars from our larder for “dinner” later, and hit the ground running.
The Rock H of F is cool, fun and informative; you’ve got to see it. We especially love the film clips of performances by the early artists: bluesmen like Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson, and Sun recording stars such as Carl Perkins, Gary Lee Lewis, and Elvis. Not to mention the Motown musicians still hot and fresh on our minds from back in Detroit.
We do get a no-kidding real meal deep in the heart of Cleveland sometime late this night, at Deanna’s open-24-hours Deli, a tip from the cheerful dude manning the parking lot.
Pittsburg is our final stop on our ‘Best of the Rust Belt’ tour, and it doesn’t disappoint. This steel town is big and robust and uniquely positioned on its river confluence site. We are surprised at the quality and depth of the Andy Warhol Museum — seven stories full of creativity and eccentricity.
Across town we become completely lost in the dinosaur-rich Carnegie Natural History Museum, and in the next door, off-the-charts art museum we argue over the merits of the pieces of modern art, and ooh and aah over the paintings by Homer, Sargent, and Moran.
A cold, biting breeze sprinkled with snow flurries keeps us moving briskly down the sidewalk as we close in on our last big objective in Pittsburgh and the trip. Bicycle Heaven is the largest bicycle museum in the world, certainly a labor of love by its enthusiastic owner. In an old warehouse close by the Allegheny River, it’s stacked floor-to-ceiling with bikes, bike parts, and well anything you can think of associated with bikes. We love it, and have trouble dragging ourselves away from it. But it’s time to go home.
It’s 2:00am and we’re closing in on Roanoke, Adam at the helm of the Honda. Clifton Forge is just now in our rear view mirror and we’re snacking on crackers and still whittling away at the huge block of sharp cheddar a friend had given us for Christmas, a staple of our shipboard provisions.
Soon we’ll be home, our tour ended. But the memories of this hilarious and educational adventure will linger, and I’ll always treasure the ‘dad heaven’ I experienced while road trippin’ with just me and my three sons. Just us. A rare privilege. Thanks, guys. Happy New Year.
Johnny Robinson