Approaching Newton along route 80, I took pictures of the long hill down which we'd tried to jumpstart Louis, and up which we'd pushed Louis (and had a flat tire) when he wouldn't start.
It was raining now, very different from the glaring noonday sun which had baked us during the ordeal when Louis died. I took a picture of the small hill where we got Louis started before my friend Joshua came running breathlessly to where all the water we'd just put in the engine had come out the tailpipe.
I parked my nowadays car, Cornelius, under the underpass where Louis had waited, freshly deceased, for the towtruck.
I went to a gas station across from the Holiday Inn where I'd seen the last of Louis. I asked where Car Country was. Car Country had given me $15.00 for Louis and towed him away. If Louis was still there, I wanted to see him.
I'd brought along some pictures of Louis: Louis next to pond with rowboat, Louis next to chicken coop, Louis being towed at Hampshire College, and, most importantly, Louis being towed away from Holiday Inn by Car Country towtruck. I walked into the used car parts warehouse and office of Car Country and whipped out my photographs. Everyone working in the place came over to look at the pictures. They were particularly interested in the pictures with the Car Country towtruck, making such comments as, "There's Ed with the ol' Chevy towtruck," and "That towtruck sure isn't in that-good-a-shape now." They pointed to an aerial photograph of the junkyard and said, "If your car's still here, it would be in this section. You can take a look."
The clouds were still looming ominously, but it had stopped raining. I sludged through the muddy, overgrown, car graveyard, holding my breath with anticipation and bracing for the disappointment that he wouldn't be there.
But then, there he was. Louis. Brown field grass was growing up all around him, and he was canted at a strange angle because his rear wheels had been removed. The headlights were in pieces and one of the sockets had been partially removed. The front bumper was only attached to the car at one end. The all-weather, indoor/outdoor housepaint on the exterior was starting to peel in places. The doors and windows were shut and the inside of the car was largely intact, except for uprooted rear seat, and the dust and cobwebs grown undisturbed for years.
I sat in the driver's seat. How familiar it felt! I was revelling in the consummation of 5-year's curiosity and longing for an old friend. I tried to think of what I could do to sanctify, to acknowledge, this moment, this experience. I was taking pictures, but I was driven to think of something more. As I sat, it dawned on me. The seat! How many thousands of miles had I driven in that seat? I took some more pictures, then I went back to the office and asked if I could borrow some tools. They knew they had a live wire on their hands after seeing those pictures, but I seemed harmless enough, so they gave me some wrenches, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers.
The doors and windows had remained shut for 5 years, so none of the bolts were too badly rusted. I'm not sure it mattered though, I had such enthusiasm for my task. I lit into the passenger's seat mounting hardware. To have taken the driver's seat would have been more sacredly sentimental, but the passenger's seat was in much better shape; the driver's seat upholstery was badly torn along a seam, a victim of too many heavy-duty miles.
I got the seat loose and carried my prize to the parts office. I asked them how much they wanted for the seat. I guess they knew they could name their price. "Ten bucks." However sentimental they are in their closets, they're businessmen in the outside. Oh well, they'd given me $15 for the car so I was still ahead in principle (and in principal).
I crammed the seat into an already full Cornelius and drove westward, delighted at how it had all worked out. Louis had died on his first trip west. This was my next trip driving west. Now I had a big hunk of Louis to carry with me; the Spirit of Louis lives on!
I visited my friend, Rich Brown, in Boulder. We drove up into Rocky Mountain National Park.
RMNP boasts the "highest continuous highway in the continental U.S.", Trail Ridge Road, peak
elevation 12,183 ft. At the highest point on the road, surrounded by walls of snow, my friend Rich
took a picture of me with Louis' seat.
When I got to Yellowstone, I saw a sign that said, "Lewis Lake". It was spelled wrong, but that didn't matter. I hauled out the seat. I stood next to the seat up to my thighs in snow, with about six inches of freezing-cold water underneath. The camera's self-timer took the picture. The ranger said it was the latest in the season he'd ever seen Lewis Lake frozen over. I could have told him, it may have LOOKED frozen, but beneath that slushy snow was unfrozen, very cold water, with two very cold feet in it.
I stashed the seat in Eugene for a few weeks, so the Spirit of Louis did not travel to Yosemite, or Death Valley, or the Grand Canyon, or Mt. St. Helen's, or ...
When I came east at the end of the summer, I brought the seat back to my apartment in Amherst. I've since mounted the seat, at a convenient sitting height, on an old wooden crate labelled, "Pioneer Valley Ginger Ale Co." The seat back still reclines. The seat is mounted on its sliders, so when one wants to lean the seat all the way back, one can slide the seat forward to center the center of gravity over the crate. The seat's stable in any position. Between the seat and the crate, a piece of plywood is mounted so as to protrude from under the seat on one side. This protrusion makes a handy table for one's coffee cup or antifreeze jug, whatever. The whole arrangement defies Better Homes and Gardens, but it's a dandy chair to sit in. If I ever go through Newton, Iowa again, I might just stop in and get the other seat.