LA to L .A . by Harrison Witt

LA to L.A.

by Harrison Witt

Back to that same old place…Sweet Home Chicago It comes on, I cry. I cry when I hear “Sweet Home Alabama”; even “Country Roads” does it . They remind me of Mom, even though we lived in Baton Rouge my entire life . She wasn’t much of a crier, more of a belter, especially when we had to remind Neil Young that a Southern man don’t need him around anyhow. Drives to school were defined by the tunes . We listened to “The Star-Spangled Banner” (Whitney’s version, of course) on Fridays, “Born In The USA” on hot days, and “American Pie” in traffic. That song was blissfully hypnotic, but man could it drag . It was post-9/11, but that didn’t mean much to Mom . She burned the CDs in ‘98 . Mom loved Clapton, even though he was a Brit . I like how his guitar seems like it has a mouth that opens and releases the perfect sound, and so did she . 2 and 2 is 4, 4 and 2 is 8 . It took me a while to realize that he was discussing multiplication, not erroneous addition . Addition is more human: summing things together feels innate, where multiplication seems mystical, transcendent . That’s why I was confused . In class we had learned that “and” prompted multiplication and “by” nudged us towards division in those pesky math-word problems, but I thought Clapton was above the Law . Mom got the problems wrong when she helped me; she was below the Law. It also took me a while to realize that Clapton wasn’t from Chicago . That made three of us . Before “Sweet Home Chicago” ends, I want to think of a story about Mom . A story doesn’t reveal much, but a routine? That’s real. After school, while I did multiplication, she poured herself a glass of brandy. She drank like they say fish do, but I’m skeptical about fish actually ‘drinking’ when they’re down there. During brandy #3, she made scrambled eggs and put 97 .1 on the stereo that rested on top of the Microwave (the other essential appliance for when Hot Pockets supplanted scramblys) . She would talk over the tunes, telling me about the adventures she had before I was born . Florida, Idaho, Hawaii, California, New York . 44 states . 44! Anywhere I dreamed of going, she’d already been . I mostly felt admiration, and sometimes jealousy, but always like a burden . That she did this before 23, without Grammy and Grampa, was a miraculous feat . I was shocked she didn’t have newspaper articles written about her . I understood–even back then–why I had to settle for Reebok over Jordans, why my birthday parties were in the backyard . She must have spent all her money on those trips . I choose to believe her about those trips. Because, why not? I’ve hit Alabama, Chicago, and am now heading towards Los Angeles to commemorate Joni Mitchell’s “California.” I wish Mom could be in this car to duet with me; I may have underestimated the drive from Alabama to California . It’s worth it though . Because when I have a son, I can tell him about my adventures with the same conviction as Mom . So come home, baby don’t you want to go?