I was lost...or was I?

I consider my life an adventure. Those of you that know me well know how much I HATE to fly. I start to panic just thinking about standing in lines, crushed bodies waiting to get on, and after, the rush of people pulling bags down into your space. People trying to maneuver their way off the plane around a line of bodies stacked up in the all too small isle makes me cringe. The seats jammed so close together that the last time I flew I could count the lice nits in the hair of the woman in front of me as she laid the seat back. Who else’s head has lain against that seat in which I am now sitting?

As a result of this disdain, I drive. I have driven from Ohio to Colorado taking the northern route, spending time in the Badlands and at Mt. Rushmore ending in the incredible Rocky Mountains in Winter Park. Daniel actually learned how to drive on South Dakota back roads when he was 15, as his 13 and 11 year old sisters lay down in the back seat yelling, "We’re going to die!!!" We stopped off along the way at a grizzly bear breeding compound that I just happened to come across in Wyoming. The kids and I (Kirk usually flew out and met up with us due to vacation restraints and the fact that he LOVES to fly) stopped at every state park, every free venue, every historic landmark. We had McDonald's French fries for afternoon snacks and whatever crappy fast food was available for dinner. We stayed at the cheapest hotels in rooms with two double beds and a rollaway.

I treasure these memories. Some of the best times we had were when we would go off the beaten path and get lost.

Going through Georgia one year on the way to Ohio (I’d like to have a dollar for every mile I’ve driven from Florida to Ohio and back), we were going up I-75 and there was a huge wreck. A prefabricated home had slid off its trailer. Half of a house was sitting in the middle of the interstate. I see this and exit, taking the next road hoping for a route around the standstill. I headed east towards the middle of the state.

The two lane roads seemed to get smaller as I headed deeper into Georgia. We’d packed a lunch and I was looking for a park to pull over and enjoy a break from the road. I kept driving. We passed through some small towns, but none offered a place to stop. As we came out of a town and made the turn northward,(at least I thought it was north as this was before GPS and my car didn’t even have a compass like most have now) I spied a huge pecan plantation. There out by the road were four picnic tables. Whether they were for workers or had been placed by the road for travelers to enjoy I had no idea, but we stopped and had our picnic under the enormous trees. My eldest daughter kept saying we were trespassing and would probably get shot. But no one came by to shoo us away so we spent an hour eating and talking about plantations and farming. It is one of my favorite memories. I picture a young mother and her three kids on an amazingly beautiful summer day. They are just sitting and talking spending those precious moments together that are so fleeting that when you look back it seems that their childhood was just a dream.

Over the years, we’ve found off the road dives that had fantastic food at 1950’s prices. We’ve discovered antique shops and barn sales. My youngest daughter collects teapots and many were found on one of our off the beaten path excursions.

Once, I was alone as I drove down back roads from Columbus, Ohio to Parkersburg, West Virginia. The road became so narrow that you had to pull over when another car was approaching in order to let them pass. I came to an enormous horse farm surrounded by miles of white fence. Out in the field were a horse and three men standing back watching as a colt took its first steps. I pulled the car over, grabbed my camera and started snapping pictures. There, in the mist of morning, I experienced a miracle that I would never encounter dodging trucks on the interstate or from a 10 by 15 inch window at 35,000 feet.

It always reminds me of my favorite Robert Frost poem;

I shall be telling this with a sigh,

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Apple/Tree

I just got home from spending two weeks with my Mother in Ohio and I was, let’s just say, extremely surprised at the similar traits that have come to light as I get older. There are some major differences. If she sees a small branch from a tree laying in the front yard it will make her crazy if she can’t run out and pick it up immediately. God forbid if it’s raining and she has to wait until the storm abates to retrieve said limb. Imagine an hours’ worth of, “I wish I could get out there and get that branch,” as the storm rages. Me, I call it yard art and move on. Also I love autumn leaves in the yard. The red, yellow and orange foliage delicately wafting to the ground giving us a carpet of brilliance second only to Joseph’s coat. I use to wait until the last minute to sweep them away. But not Mom, she starts mowing them up with the first dropping and doesn’t stop until the last leaf is bagged and sent off to the city municipality where they will mulch it up to use in the parks.

There are other differences as well. I’m a night person. I love the night life I love to boogie…okay maybe not boogie, but I do love the quiet that comes after the sun has set and the young ones are all tucked into bed. When we were first married I would go to bed with my husband, wait until I heard the gentle breathing of sleep coming from his side of the bed and get up. I considered myself the late night marauder. I often would clean the house as there were no little ones under foot to shoo away from my necessary chores. Sometimes I would just get a book and read. It was my special quiet time. But my mother is inflicted with that disease I don’t understand, that of being a morning person. I have never understood this disorder. Getting up before the sun rises is just too far out of my range of understanding. When I visit I’m up late writing or reading while she sleeps. In the morning she’s usually had her coffee and run her daily errands before I pop my head out for coffee around eight.

But on this visit I noticed that when someone would ask us a question we would answer at the same time and more than once we answered the same way. Things that annoyed me seemed to annoy her. The similar mannerisms, the speech pattern, it was evident throughout the whole visit. I remembered someone saying, “You look just like your Mother but you act just like your Father.” Dad was the funny one, the one who always had a good time. But Mom is up for anything. “Want to drive to Amish country?” She’s in the car. “Want to do a tour of gardens in the village?” “When and where?” We’ve become friends looking for the next adventure. And really isn’t that what life is all about?

That’s Not My Luggage That's My Makeup Bag

Recently my husband and I went on a trip with another couple. We had the car packed and my husband was commenting on the amount of luggage I’d brought along. “Really, Wendy, is all this necessary?”

“Well,” I started, “I need clothes to stay in, clothes to go out, it’s a weird time of year so I need warm and cool clothes. I need workout clothes (that I really intend to use this time) and swimwear for the indoor pool. I need black shoes, brown shoes, tennis shoes, my black boots and brown boots (I live in Florida when else will I wear them?), water shoes for Kayaking and fuzzy slippers for inside the house at night. I need pj’s and since we are traveling with others a robe because I don’t get dressed until after my morning coffee (we’ll get to the strange way I do everything in order each day later). I need two jackets; one to go with brown and one to go with black outfits. I need my seven different color shawls because I get cold and need to wrap up but never know which color I’ll need.”

“Okay,” he says, “I get you need all the clothing, but what’s in this bag?” He holds up a rather large duffle. I take a deep breath and start. “That is my makeup bag.” “Nobody needs this much make up.” “Really? Let’s see.” I pull out the contents. “This is my blow dryer because my hair is so thick I need a 3500 watt. Most places only have 1500 so unless you want to wait an hour and a half for my hair to dry this stays. Next is my straightener. I have naturally curly hair and if I don’t straighten it I’ll resemble Bozo the clown on a good day. And don’t forget I need both my hair brushes, the big on for the top of my hair and the small one to curl the ends.” I continue to lay out the rest, “This is my shampoo, conditioner, hair glaze and hair smoother, all necessary to complete the illusion that I just run a comb through my hair and go.”

“Okay,” my loving husband sighs, now sorry that he brought up the subject. “This bag contains my actual makeup. Day make up and evening because the lighting is different and therefore the makeup is different.” I need to note that this is the smallest bag in the duffle as I really don’t use a lot of makeup. Somehow having it just makes me feel better, you know, in case of an emergency.

“And this bag,” I hold up a plastic zip lock bag, “is medication. My must haves, my daily regime, Lipitor, Calcium, Fish Oil, Multi Vitamins and Advil. Then there are the may needs Tums, pepcid, Benadryl, and the ever necessary item to cure that travel problem many of us get, a laxative. Then the necessaries: toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, mouthwash and last, baby powder and deodorant along with a few of my tanning towels.”

“I get it, okay...can we go?” “Not so fast, Mister. I also have my soap that I use because some soap dries out my skin and I need my moisturizer to put on each night to keep my tender facial skin hydrated.” “Are you done?” he asks, obviously tired of playing this game. I look in the bag, “Yep that’s it. Oh except the towel.” “Alright, put it all away. I get it. I won’t say anything again.” “Thanks, hon,” I say rubbing his face gently with my hand. “That’s why you’re such a good husband."