Mornings are hard for me.  I’m irritable, foggy, and disinterested in … everything.  Each one feels like I’ve just been wheeled out of surgery and need to fight to come back from anesthetic.  Even after my eyes have fully opened I see things through a mirky lense, like a squished bug has just been wiped off my eyeballs with a kleenex.  Life is a smear that I hope will come into focus before any job or person deems me essential. The soundtrack to most of my mornings’ is the hum of an electric toothbrush held in the air too long while I figure out why I’m awake and what day it is.  I used to think that only a three alarm fire could short circuit me to fully awake. Earlier this week, while standing in my kitchen performing my morning ritual, I reached deep into my lungs to release an epic yawn and a throaty “Arrrrgh. I’m soooooooo tired”,  which is usually followed by silence or footsteps leaving the room. But this morning was different.  A crackly, happy voice chimed in for comment from somewhere off in the dreamy distance.  All the way on the other side of the breakfast counter there was life wanting to interact.  Like a deer in headlights, my eyes blew wide open, the voice startling me like a guitar solo at a funeral, injecting my heart with new blood until it nearly doubled in size. My 17 year old son, with a mouth full of toast said,

“Maybe it’s because we had such a fun weekend.”

“It was fun wasn’t it” I recalled with a gravity he may not have detected.

We went to Cleveland.  Cleveland, Ohio. The Cleve. Even as I say it now, I realise expectations were low and that could be why we elevated the experience with little effort. While Cleveland lives in popular culture and has been the setting of many a TV show or movie, Cleveland has rarely been top of my mind. We are a family stricken with wanderlust, enjoying places like New York, Nairobi, Paris and Abu Dhabi but the Cleve?   A basketball tournament was our reason for going but the purpose, of any family road trip, always ends up being far more profound.

In the TV show Hot In Cleveland, three women on their way to Paris crash land in Cleveland. While waiting for a rescheduled flight, the ladies spend a night out at a bar, quickly realizing they are, well, considered hot in Cleveland, so they decide to stay. The Drew Carey Show, also set in Cleveland, revolves around the everyday life of of a regular guy with an office job and a bunch of slightly dim friends.  They drink beer, pay bills, and get up to small office and neighborhood hijinx. In the film Accepted, a bunch of underachieving teens create a phony college, just outside of Cleveland, so they can tell their parents they got into a post secondary institute.  News of the bogus school gets out and fringe freshman from across the country flock to the Cleveland area to find themselves, fit in, and fake out their parents.   And who can forget the scene where Liz Lemon (Tina Fey), staunch New Yorker in the hit series 30 Rock, gets off the plane in Cleveland to breathe in some unfamiliar air:

“What smells so good?”

To which her boyfriend Floyd (Jason Sudeikis) replies,

“Cleveland”.   

As Hollywood sees it, lives aren’t changed in Cleveland, but they are pleasantly lived.  On the shores of Lake Erie, the giant red letters at the Rock’N’Roll Hall of Fame, LONG LIVE ROCK’N’ROLL, shout out to passersby that music matters and here is your beacon.  The great lake sparkles, the people and vibe rock you into submission and tempt you to breathe a little deeper. All signs point to Cleveland being the land of quirky and safe - for humans anyway.

The drive from Toronto to Cleveland is the stuff great sleep apps are made of - monotony and repetition, save for one unique visual that kept us from nodding off.  Dead deer litter the side of the road like plump raspberries on a dessert plate of flourless chocolate cake at a five star restaurant. Just when I thought my lids would finally drop, a set of sad chestnut eyes looking up from a pink and brown twisted carcass would meet my gaze, searing anguish into my soul, and wake me up.  Hello Ohio. Why so aggressive? Bambi needs some roadside fencing. It was a strange sort of introduction to Ohio and Cleveland, albeit memorable.

Thankfully the hotel felt less like death and macabre art and more like the Cleveland Liz Lemon smelled.  We checked into our pet friendly hotel near the tournament site and immediately a Cleveland style charm began to disarm me.  After walking the dog, I strolled into the lobby behind everyone and was promptly stopped by a robust but smiling concierge. Apparently we hadn’t let them know we had a pet and would need to pay a fee.  I smiled and started to say that we had but before I could begin, he smiled and said “You know what Miss, just sign here.  I’m gonna waive that fee.” This is how Cleveland gets you.

Alright, he said M’am but I’d like to remember it as Miss.

The next morning, I enjoyed a heaping bowl of oatmeal and nuts for breakfast in the cozy, family style dining room, intent on avoiding the bacon and eggs so I could indulge later in the day.  Committed to this routine, the following day I plopped scoop after scoop of the hot fuel into my bowl again, barely noticing the different texture. The nice man from the kitchen, not unlike the concierge in his quiet, kind demeanor, leaned in to let me know it was grits in the pot, not oatmeal.  What now? How could I waste all this food? A little melted butter and a fist full of crumbled bacon later and I was blissfully relaxing into a savory bowl of USA’s finest grub, secretly wishing I could find someone to argue with just so I could holler “kiss my grits” while actually having some grits. I should have thrown out the savory gruel and eaten my antioxidant rich bowl of beige blah. The benevolence of the people and place tricked me into having fun with my food. Damn you Cleve!

The weekend continued to uncurl, like a mic cord from a roadie’s hand strolling across a modest stage.  The activities were diverse and engaging. My son’s basketball tournament had all the moments any kid could hope for.  They sweat, they got beat, they rallied, mother’s covered their eyes as hasty shots lobbed from too far away sailed through the air at a speed that seemed too slow for flight, making time stand still. My son achieved his “I shot a three pointer to win the game in the last few seconds” moment that most young players, and Raptors, dream of.  Sweat and squeaky shoes filled the gymnasium while glitter and GaGa wrapped the downtown core for the kick off to Pride month. We waved and watched Nina West, RuPaul’s Drag Race third place winner, usher throngs of people in all colours of the rainbow, all shapes and sizes, all stages of happy and free, through the streets of this congenial ‘town’.  Everything about Miss Nina West was fun - her red dress, tattoos, Dolly-esque blond wig, and humble kisses to the crowd. Like a good bra, she lifted people up and made them feel supported.  As I watched my kids absorb the event, I secretly thanked Cleveland yet again for it’s warmth. The world is changing - for the better, or so it was for a moment. My children will be loved in all their variations.

The gravy on our midwest mash was definitely the killer soundtrack that conspicuously seeped from Cleveland speakers and radio stations like a gas leak in an office building, poisoning us with ‘awesome’ every time we set foot in the car or relaxed in a restaurant.  Consistently GREAT music played everywhere. Cleveland disc jockey, Alan Freed, popularized the term rock’n’roll in 1951 and the world has run with it ever since.  Better yet, there seems to be a collective agreement here to not just pay homage to the genre, but to go one step further and throw out the idea of genre and just play great songs;  songs that evoke memories, tease out a mood, and slink into your musculoskeletal system, moving you like a boy band marionnette whether you like it or not. While I don’t condone lip sync battles at the dinner table, particularly in public, it’s hard to resist when there’s a hit parade served with every dish - Britney with apps, Earth Wind and Fire for main and Elton for dessert.  I dare you not to chew fast so you can hit the chorus and create a strobe light with your freshly licked spoon. Instead of untangling headphones and chargers in the car, we got wrapped up in our voices caroling “turn it up”! The tagline at 106.5 The Lake is “We play anything”.  And apparently, we’ll sing anything.

Appropriately, we ended our weekend at the Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame. Every era has its sounds, its heroes, its trends and its anthem’s.  They are all represented here in all their sweat stained, spandex glory. We inhaled music and images of artists expressing themselves and the collective voice of the generations they embodied.  Leather, feathers, sequins and cocktail napkins with iconic lyrics scribbled on them fill the building with an aura of ghost and genius, like THC smoke in a crystal ball. The kids ran to Michael Jackson (forgive them, they don’t fully know), and Lady Gaga memorabilia.  I jumped at the sight of Stevie Nicks flowing costumes and Gregg Allman’s guitar. My husband couldn’t take enough pictures of Flava Fav’s clock necklace (forgive him too). We bored them to death with memories of every concert or song that played us through our adolescence and messy teens; the time I got hit in the head with a piece of sod at a Steve Miller Band concert, or the feeling of catching a soccer ball kicked off stage into the crowd by Rod “The Bod” Stewart.  I even admitted to covering myself in Spice Girls and Duran Duran buttons until it looked like my skin was denim and I had pop music measles. My husband explained how we used to record songs off the radio to tape (huh?) and with physical gestures, he demonstrated the precision it took to press play and record exactly when the DJ stopped talking so you could get as much of the song as possible.  They shared their stories too and took the time to listen, learn and impress us with the odd “Of course I know that song. Everybody does”.  

With musical memories and fatigue quieting us all, we hopped in the car and bid Cleveland adieu.  It was a fine weekend but overall, I’m sure none of us were dying to get home and tell the world about our weekend in Ohio. It wasn’t like our safari in Kenya or the volcanic mud baths and monkey’s in Costa Rica.  It was Cleveland.

Shortly after hitting the road, as twilight crept across the sky like a slow leaking hose, a miracle happened.  While each of us lay back in our seats, warmed by the low hanging sun, forgetting the time we spent together without distraction and already looking ahead to the busy week we would spend apart, a deer was running a precarious race along the side of the road.  In the lane between us and the shoulder was a shiny and powerful transport truck, driving with force and speed. Just ahead of the truck, in the dirt, the deer barreled out of the woods and ran like the wind down the dusty side of the highway. In a blink, for whatever reason, the deer took a hard left, eyes in my direction, and hopped out in front of the transport, joining the highway traffic for a brief moment.  The trucker leaned hard on his horn, frightening the deer back off the road in a frantic hop, shocking my husband and I out of our dreamy state. My heart stopped at the sound of the horn and my brain exploded with a million irrational thoughts of the good times just had and my innocent family.

“Thank gawd that truck just kept driving and didn’t swerve to hit us.”

Thank gawd that truck didn’t swerve and hit us is right. Suddenly our weekend in Cleveland full of sweet moments; baskets and squeaks, wigs and flags, guitars and off-key choruses, and most of all, time spent just hanging out, came into focus.  The driver knew to stay his course and sacrifice the deer if need be. Cleveland - you got us again. You came out of the woods to remind us what a gift this weekend was. Just as we were leaving your orb, you sent a forest creature as a gentle reminder that there is no such thing as small.  If that deer were wearing a hat, he would have tipped it to us before ducking into the woods with a “you’re welcome” kind of motion. We don’t need to be swinging from trees in far off lands to feel alive or grateful. We just needed Cleveland. Making eye contact with that deer, who survived while so many others did not, and absorbing that horn blast were the butter and bacon in my grits.  Another bit of trickery leading me to gobble up whatever comes my way and love it - always!

So I will sing like no one’s listening and drive like the deer are lurking.  Maybe Tom Cochrane has been to Cleveland and that’s how he knows Life Is A Highway.  I’m gonna keep my fingers firmly pressing down on play and record so all the subtle and not-so subtle moments with the passengers I love the most make it on to my soundtrack and I don’t miss a beat.

“And you can tell everybody this is your song

It may be quite simple, but now that it's done

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind

That I put down in words

How wonderful life is while you're in the world”

Sir Elton John

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlPlfCy1urI

By Carol Sloan

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