Route 309 runs for 134 miles through the state of Pennsylvania. It starts near Philadelphia and ends in Bowman Creek, near a town called Wilkes Barre. A town sits at a point equidistant between the two aforementioned markers. The nature of the town is a dichotomy of agrarian farms and the commercial world, referred to as a place called Quakertown. The highway runs through the town center; cars each tell their own story in every spin of their tires or blare of their horns.
Shops line the sides of the highways in clusters: a TGI Fridays, a McDonald’s, the obligatory Wendy’s. The Family Diner sits in the same section as the local Giant Food Store, joined by a set of connecting stairs. More people eventually gravitate to industry, creating sustainable livings. They are farmers of the land by a different method.
Off the Turnpike entrance, one comes into Quakertown via a transition. The scene changes from a National Geographic film to a sudden burst of small civilization. Frequent visitors will not mark such a change, but the residents have noticed the shifts.
From the turnpike entrance comes a 1970’s red Chevy Impala. It is dark, glinting with both a classical sheen and whisky-aged beauty. The whistles of passersby appreciate its nearly pristine condition. The man behind the wheel of the car eases to the stoplight. Music drifts gently from the car radio, fusing with the notes of the world’s breeze.
A translucent guitar strums; a piano plays softly. A voice cracks the air as it tries to pry itself from the speakers.
In the passenger seat of the car, a woman sits reading a book. 19 Minutes by Jodi Picoult, the blue cover contrasting the warmness of her dress. The creases of the pages almost match the folds on her skin. A pair of modest earrings frame the sides of her face. Her eyes focus down on the text in her lap. Like the man’s, her eyes look through glasses. If peoples’ items could speak, the woman’s possessions would attest to a life well lived.
As the car rolls to a stop in front of the light, she raises her head.
“Harlan,” she asks in a voice of aged velvet.
“Yes, dear?” The man replies.
“Should we say anything once we get there?’
Harlan lets out a breath.
“There is a time and place for everything, right? I don’t think it’ll be constructive if we do.”
The woman nods, silent. She turns back to the book in her lap. The ring on her right hand gently glides across the page.
The light turns green. The impala rumbles in delight, ready to move, a model on a catwalk of pavement.
The radio fills the conversation eagerly, a parched animal lapping from a pond.
The woman glances up from her book. She frowns, her brown eyes and eyebrows in tune.
“Is this still U2?” she asks.
“Yes, darling. The Joshua Tree.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard this one before.” She grins, looking at him. Even in his age, he is handsome, his complexion darkened from the sun’s kiss.
Harlan returns the grin. “I think you might just have forgotten. I played it the last time we were on our way up here.”
“I don’t forget anything.” The woman says, turning back to her book.
“I’m surprised you don’t need a nametag to keep you straight some mornings.” Harlan chuckles. They roll to a stop again.
“I’ll build it for you myself. Cynthia Joy McGregor, hang it right above the bathroom door.” Harlan turns to look at her now. His humor pauses, just like his heart every time he looks in her direction.
There sits his wife, peering down at the book in her lap. Some people get sick of each other, but their thirty-six years still feels like a first date. All secrets are shared. She’s looking at the page, but isn’t reading a word.
Harlan reaches over and turns the music down. The traffic light is long to change.
“What’s eating at you, my love?” Harlan wonders, retaining his cheeriness while his words cut like a fish through water.
Cynthia does not sigh, but her breath indicates an escaping thought.
“I’m worried about our son. And his wife. And our grandson.”
Harlan nods, turning his focus back to the road.
“I am too. I don’t think it’s much of our business.”
Minutes pass; the song finishes. Harlan reaches a hand out and adjusts the track, hitting the ‘up’ button four times. Track nine is his favorite. As the music starts once again, the car drifts from the commercial center and into the nucleus of town, the other half of the coin on which Quakertown is printed. One side holds the future, and the other the past. While the highway has been apt to travel, the rest of the town is not as eager to change.
Harlan guides the car to a stop, the line of vehicles in front of him at a standstill. He turns to Cynthia, as the song plays out.
Cynthia shifts her view once more from her book, her hands resting upon her place in the paragraph. Her eyes meet her husband’s; a bridge across time, space, and distance. Her eyes’ stir like a pool of water feeling the ripple of a fallen stone.
Next to the car is a building made of cherry red tiles flanking two different sets of doors. Proudly displayed on the building’s face are the words:
Sines 5 & 10
If one were to enter the building, one might mistake the entrance across the threshold as looking back in time at an old walk-in photograph. A soda fountain adorns a serving counter on one side of the shop, offering menus for breakfast and lunch. Only one or two individuals run the station, but the legacy of a hundred years of business in the town serves the food. History and delight season each dish.
Behind the soda fountain are lines of aisles selling toys and other various items. Plastic army men lie encased in their packaging, preparing to ship off to war. Model airplanes line the aisles, pre-assembled or in pieces. Toys of all shapes and sizes sell for a low price, which the 1950’s register at the counter near the front processes easily. Children walk around in wonder—a feeling not produced by a screen, but by the spectacle of toys which fit into their hands. The amazing things one can build are the foundations of joy in life.
It’s believed portions of life exist outside of time. As Harlan and Cynthia pass the shop, with the register area lined with different types of candy for sale, the spun milkshakes boasting unparalleled taste, and a smiling, bearded man dipping a shiny silver spoon into a vivacious vanilla sundae, their glance could be eternal. The love in the town adapts and evolves, because love never means to die. Such is the abundance of Quakertown.
The traffic moves again. Harlan and Cynthia break their gaze. Cynthia goes back to reading, and Harlan drives on. Time moves once more, tailgating them down the quaint street.
2
Driving further away from Quakertown, commercialism recedes as a wave from the shoreline. Shops disappear, and turn into homes. Each stone set in the earth designs itself as a childhood memory. More agriculture unfurls, with dollars nothing more than sheets of paper in the pocket of a coat. Residents prefer walking the paths. Stability is in the air as much as oxygen. The signals firing in worlds such as politics are dismissible with the click of a power button. The residents are not shortsighted; on the contrary, the most intellectual people on the face of the planet might inhabit the small borough of Coopersburg.
To a child looking from the intersection of Spinnerstown Pike and Golden Harrow road, the world ends at the intersection of Spinnerstown and Cornerstone Road. Home is the scope of their existence; they have no concept of stores, or of malevolent people. Where do convicted felons like to shop? Such