David McGrath: Fourth of July is all about freedom and open highways – Duluth News Tribune

I dont remember the mileage, but the grill resembled a smiling Charles Bronson, with 330 horses under the hood. When I drove to Toms house to show off, he raised an eyebrow and uttered the magic words: road trip.

I had known Tom since grade school, when he was the starting guard on St. Bernadettes basketball team and I was a reserve. We shared a passion for Sherwoods hamburgers, bass fishing, and Raquel Welch. And now we had both just graduated college, with summer shore leave, before wed enter the adult world. Absolutely nothing was expected from either of us, and we agreed to take off on Monday morning.

Of course, we had no internet, no reservations, and no money for boats or motels. But Tom proposed we head toward Iowa. We could fish all day in the countless farm ponds he had seen where he went to school, which sounded like a plan to me.

Shortly after leaving town, I had the Olds in the left lane of the interstate 75 mph, elbows out the open window, Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio. I looked at Tom and could tell he felt the same: We owned that blessed road.

Until, that is, I had to abruptly pull off, when it felt like we hit a curb, the steering wheel shaking violently and pulling to the left. I fought the wheel to pull onto the shoulder, where we got out to see the damage: a blowout of the front left tire. Working together, we had the 88 jacked up and the spare mounted in minutes. But a portion of the flats tread was sliced off like an orange peel, so we had to buy a used spare for $5 at the next gas station.

Once we resumed, we talked some about fishing, and then I asked Tom to tell the story of how he once intercepted future pro Ken Anderson while playing cornerback for the Iowa Wesleyan Tigers. Next, we talked about after-summer plans. Tom was intent on owning his own business, and I would teach until I published the next "Great American Novel." As the Olds roared across a suspension bridge, high above a sparkling stream, neither of us harbored a single doubt.

After exiting the interstate, Tom spied a familiar-looking pond glinting in the sun along the side of a hill. It was farther from the road than it appeared, and we plodded through head high grass and patches of deep mud. The fish, however, were starving, and we caught over 40 juvenile bass, managing to cull eight of decent size that we kept on a stringer staked in the water.

I was thinking two more and wed have our limit and our dinner, when I saw a lone black cow making its way down the hill, head hanging low, looking our way.

Let's go, said Tom. Grab the stringer.

I asked what the rush was. We still needed two more fish. But he had already disappeared into the high grass, his fishing rod moving like a periscope above his head. I grabbed the fish and followed him back toward the road. We finally made it to the car, panting, muddy, sweaty.

Bull Pond, said Tom. I just remembered what they used to call this place.

Good and tired, we drove into town and parked in front of Toms former fraternity house. It was closed up for the summer, but we found an unlocked window around back. The water and electric were still on, so I unpacked our gear while Tom found dishes, salt and pepper, and we cleaned and cooked what we had caught: a meal like a sacrament, and the best fish we ever tasted.

Over the next half century, the two of us would slowly, methodically trade many of our freedoms, one by one, in exchange for our careers, for homes and mortgages, for marriage and family responsibility, for cell phones and GPS tracking, for arthritis medicine and 401Ks, and for insurance policies on our houses, cars, our lives, our deaths, and even our tires.

But today we drink a beer on the patio, and commemorate that long ago time of independence, youth, and intimacy with the land.

And we raise a toast on the Fourth of July to the country where , in spite of all its current problems, you can still choose your direction on lifes highway and determine how far you go, by your work, your wiles, and your will.

Former Hayward resident and emeritus English professor for the College of DuPage in Illinois, David McGrath is the author of South Siders and a frequent contributor to the News Tribune Opinion page. He can be reached at profmcgrath2004@yahoo.com.

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David McGrath: Fourth of July is all about freedom and open highways - Duluth News Tribune