Headed To My Homeland

Ahhh...fresh air.  I am fast forwarding four days when I will actually be able to take a deep breath without fear of inhaling the latest pollutant clouding up the DFW skies.  I am headed to my homeland, the mothership, the good life, Nebraska.  Some may accuse me of planning this trip just to put a few more state lines between me and the Swine Flu, but I can tell you all with certainty, that is not the case. 

 

It's time to visit the friends and the family.  I am embarrassed to admit in writing how long it's been since I have traveled north on I-35 to see my people, so I won't mention it.  Just trust me when I say that it's been too long and this is a much overdue adventure.  And what an adventure it will be.

My husband Jay and I will load ourselves and our two miniature dachshunds up in our car.  One of the two (impossible to say which one) has a tendency to get a little car sick but I will be prepared this time.  We discovered her aversion to long journeys on our way through West Texas last December and our situation was so dire that I ran into an Allsup's Gas Station to buy paper towels and 409.  For those of you who are fortunate enough to not be familiar with Allsup's, essentially I took one for the team.  Big time.  I sacrificed my hair, clothing and skin knowing that I would exit Allsup's smelling like a human fried burrito.  Nasty.

I have always enjoyed the road trip, and I am looking forward to this one as well.  I have 1,000,684 memories of taking family vacations in the car.  As the older sister, I always had dibs on setting the ground rules.  Territory was always the top priority.  "This is the line," I would say to my sister as my index finger ran down the middle of the back seat.  "You stay on your side, and I'll stay on my side, and we should get along just fine."  Yeah right.   Immediately treaties and agreements were violated and all hell broke loose.  My mom pretended to sleep as we argued and my dad turned up the volume on the stereo and sang along to his favorite Bruce Springsteen song of the moment hoping we would work it out on our own.

Road trips are different now.  Jay and I have started our own traditions to pass the time during our 10-hour trek to Lincoln.  We often play the popular "how many meth addicts did you see at that gas station?".  I always win if I am first in the QuikTrip in Wichita.  Dog vomit and Meth addicts...you can see why I am looking forward to the fresh air.

Extra, extra!

"Dad, I need a new bike."  I commanded to my father attempting to steal his attention away from the television, his evening reading material and whatever thoughts he was having at the time.  He put the newspaper down, gave me the look and replied, "Steph, what you really need is a job."  

Surely he misunderstood what I was talking about.  My plan had been that I would let my parents know of my deficiencies in my bicycle department, and they would fix my problem by providing the bike to me. Simple enough.  

Unbeknownst to my dad at the time, this conversation was simply a technicality as far as I was concerned.  I had been eyeing my new 10-speed for weeks at the Coast-to-Coast hardware store.  It was bright red with padded handle bars and a portable bike pump clipped to the frame.  Who in their wildest dreams could even imagine that such an accessory was widely available in 1985?  Not this side-ponytail-wearing pre-teen.  This bike was my destiny, and I knew it.  My dad wasn't so sure.  

"Yes, you need to buy the bike yourself and you can start working this week," he insisted.  I wasn't deterred. Knowing that I was too young by a few years for babysitting, I figured my dad had miscalculated my age again and would soon just cut me a check once he double-checked his math.  "I am too young to babysit," I helpfully reminded him.  "Who said anything about babysitting?  You are going to get a paper route."  I paused waiting for my dad to start laughing. He's always had a great sense of humor and I was sure he was pulling my leg.  Three seconds passed...four seconds...five...six, this is weird, I thought, we were now having a staring contest. He didn't crack a smile, but he did circle the HELP WANTED ad for me and then sent me on my way.

While my mom was in agreement that this paper route would be a good exercise in responsibility for me, the idea of her oldest child canvassing the streets alone in the dark to scatter newsprint did not jive with her motherly instincts.  Solution-she would drive me on my paper route every morning.  In retrospect, it sounds like cheating.  But in all seriousness, it was 5 in the morning and it was winter in Nebraska. 

Each morning my alarm clock screamed at me at 4:30 AM. The regional manager whom I 

worked for delivered my bundles of "The Lincoln Star" to my door.  I immediately started the ritual of folding the papers to optimize space in my bag covered in reflective tape.  If it had rained or snowed overnight, I had to bag each paper in a beautiful plastic orange wrapper that would make a 2009 environmentalist cringe.  My hands were covered in smeared black ink and our house smelled like the combination of newspapers and fresh Folger's coffee as my mom prepared for our departure with her first cup in hand.

My mom was a trooper.  She knew the route as well as I did.  We were partners in crime and I look back on those early morning hours with nostalgia now.  I proved to myself and my parents that I could follow-through on a goal and be responsible enough to be trusted with a job.  The best part was I got the bike eventually, it was the sweetest $90 I ever spent.  I test drove the bike around the block to make sure we were meant to be together, and my instincts were correct.  I started humming the tune "Born Free" as I turned the corner back to the store.  It was time to pay.  I counted out a combination of newspaper tip money and allowance.  I basked in the glow of my accomplishment.  Handing that cash over to the owner of the hardware store, it seemed only fitting that some of the bills were smeared with newspaper ink. 

Ahhh...Spring

I love spring.  Naked trees become covered in green veils, flowers appear and explode in color and fragrance and tornado sirens scream in the distance.  As a girl from the Midwest, more specifically, Nebraska, I can't separate spring from Tornado season.  The two go together like peanut butter and jelly and in my family, we were always aware of even the slightest tornado threat within a 150 mile radius of our home.

My father was and continues to be fascinated by tornadoes and all storms for that matter.  He has very vivid and happy memories of sitting on his family's front porch with his grandfather watching a storm roll in as lightning would strike in the distance.   I wasn't there with my father and his grandfather obviously, but I envision them both trying to be the first to point out the next ominous dark cloud or flash of light at the 2 o'clock position.  That was not my mom's childhood experience.  As the daughter of a farmer who raised livestock and crops, tornadoes meant that my grandparent's ability to support the family was on the line.  Hail often accompanies aggressive storms and the combination can wipe out that season's hard work in an instant.  

When I was in high school, my mom was in a horrible car accident and we celebrated her release from a wheel chair with dinner out one night.  During the day, the weather was wonderful.  The skies were cloudless and the most beautiful color of sheer blue.  Streets were filled with bicycles, and everyone drove with their windows down.  Spring had officially sprung.

It wasn't long into our celebratory dinner that the weather quickly changed.  The owner of our favorite restaurant yelled to all patrons that we had to leave immediately.  There wasn't enough room in his facility for everyone and there was a tornado headed right for us.  This was my mom's living nightmare.  She wasn't entirely mobile as she struggled with crutches and a cast that extended to her knee.  We were eight miles from the safety of our basement.  We quickly got into our car.  The sirens howled warning us that we were tempting Mother Nature.  Run for your life.

The sky was now pitch black to shades of muddy green.  There was no motion in newly-bloomed trees, no chorus from the birds.  We were vulnerable in our vehicle trying to outrun the storm.  Once we were on the highway, the winds picked up to violent levels.  The heavy rain followed.  Windshield wipers at the highest setting could not come close to clearing the windshield for my father's eyes.  We were the only car on the road.

I remember thinking that we had to keep my mom calm.  She started reciting the Lord's Prayer. Silently nudging my sister to look behind us, we could see the wall of the tornado when lighting flashed in two-second intervals.  It couldn't have been more than a half-mile away from us. Knowing that this sight would throw my mom into complete panic, my sister and I were quiet about what we were witnessing.  I simply asked my dad to go faster.

As I looked toward my dad and the steering wheel, I noticed that he was fighting to keep the car on the road.  Then the orange glow of the "low fuel light" lit up the console like a Christmas tree. You've got to be kidding me.  Our car moved faster now, the wind was letting up a little.  I heard the next day in school that several families lost barns and buildings and I was keenly aware that I had probably seen it happen as I watched the tornado move across the farmland behind us.  

We got to our house safely.  My mom disregarded all instructions from her doctor's visit that day and ran into our house directly to the basement.  My sister and I followed.  My dad stayed upstairs to watch the sky and call around to check on his business.   Needless to say, we were all okay, and without any suggestion to the contrary, we celebrated my mom's next healing milestones in the comfort of our own home close to her weather radio and steps away from our basement.

The First Wardrobe Malfunction

I will never forget a hot day in the summer of 1984.  Our long-time neighborhood postman delivered a certified envelope to our front door.  I would be surprised if that nice man's ear drums have fully recovered even by now.

I screamed, like I had never screamed before.  These weren't the wails of a child in pain or fear.  These were the sounds an obsessed girl makes when she is holding an envelope containing concert tickets to see Michael Jackson.  I don't remember who, but someone on the scene reminded me to breathe.

This was no ordinary concert. Children all over the country had promised to take out the trash until they graduated from high school just for the chance to go to this event.  I was one of those kids.  I had no idea my deals with the devil would carry such a price.

My planning began immediately.  I had meticulously picked out my outfit weeks in advance.  To answer your question, yes, my chosen ensemble did include a sequins-covered glove for my right hand.

I knew without a doubt that this concert would be the happiest day of life.  And it could have been.  Then my mother got involved.  My mother was very proud that she and my dad could take my younger sister and I to Kansas City for the concert.  I am sure my parents made sacrifices so that we would be able to attend the concert as a family, and I appreciate that very much. Now the but.

Because of the expectation and expense involved, I think my mother was under the impression that we would be mingling with royalty at The Victory Tour show at Arrowhead Stadium.  At least that's what I try to tell myself as I work my way toward forgiveness.

You see, at my mother's demand, I was not allowed to wear my perfectly planned outfit with the coordinating sequins-glove.  This was a special occasion and my attire needed to correspond accordingly. So...she made us wear our Easter dresses to the Michael Jackson concert.  I'll say it again just so you can really understand the gravity of the situation.  I was forced to wear my Easter dress to the Michael Jackson concert.  

As you might expect, there are no pictures I can share with you.  My mother didn't want to capture my near-tears eyes as I looked around the parking lot watching kids my age flash their trendy clothes and breakdance and moonwalk around me.  I knew they were taunting me.  My mother knew it too, but it was too late.

The show began and thankfully, the lights went down and no one could stare at me in my pastel-striped dress.  Gag.  I do know for sure that the show was fantastic and I would have been thrilled to be there even if I was wearing a garbage bag.  Well, a garbage bag with my sequins-covered glove anyway.

Irony on steel

It didn't happen today or even last week.  But it's happened before and it always makes me smile and giggle a little to myself.

I have made mistakes while driving thereby unintentionally upsetting the driver behind me.  On these rare occasions, I have been given the sweet gift of said drivers' middle finger.  This token of anger is sometimes accompanied by a jump-inducing honk of the horn as well.  I tend to shrug and smile and apologize via wave to the red-faced driver as they pass me with their accelerator jammed to the floorboard.  

As the driver passes me with horn honking, middle-finger-waving hatred, there is undoubtedly a Jesus fish proudly displayed on the back of the car to the side of the license plate.   I shake my head quickly, raise my left eyebrow and think that is some ironic shit.

Reminders

It's strange, really.  Life goes on, days pass, happiness happens.

And then it hits me.  Unexpectedly I see what most people wouldn't even notice.  A sign just off the freeway that I travel 156 times a week.  But today it's different.  I see the sign and a bolt of lightning flashes through my eyes forcing each shut for a split second.  I let out an audible sigh reacting to the feeling of being briefly punched in the stomach.  The sign simply read:  "Shopping Center Open in August 2009"...which seems harmless.  But seeing it today reminds me that I saw that sign during my 13- weeks-of-pregnancy-bliss, and used it as a benchmark.  Yes, I had something to look forward to just like the consumers of my city. By August 2009, I would be a mother finally. Finally.  

After doctors, tests, needles, surgeries, more doctors and even diagnoses, pregnancy was finally happening.  Then the worst happened and we/I lost the baby.  Gone.  Now I see the sign and remember how happy I was thinking of that time in the not-so-distant future.  Not this time. Not the summer of 2009.