This is how we traveled (down south)

Mom got up early that morning.  She cleaned, cut up, seasoned, floured and fried a whole chicken.  The chicken was wrapped in foil and placed in a tote bag, one she acquired from a conference or from teaching.  To this bag she added a loaf of white bread and fruit.  There was another bag with 2 packs of Pringles potato chips and cookies; the thin butter cookies in clear cellophane trays that were under a dollar.  There was one roll of paper towels, styrofoam cups and a yellow jug of ice water.    Preparing the food was her final act.  The last few days she had spent washing clothes.  The clothes were folded, rolled and packed into a large, heavy suitcase that the family shared.  She placed our clothes in quadrants in the suitcase for each member of the family.  We were going down south.

  

We travelled in our 1976 Chevy Malibu.   Leaving Maryland, we would soon be on I-95 on our way to South Carolina; first to visit my mother’s hometown of Cheraw and then on to my father’s in North Augusta.   There was more than 500 miles ahead of us.  The first part of the drive was easy; the air was as cool as it was going to be.  I could keep myself entertained with mile markers and crossing the first state line.  I knew that once we got past Richmond, Virginia, I could begin to think about lunch and that fried chicken.   It was too early to begin to ask Are we there yet?  

Lunch was always at a rest stop.  In those days, rest stops offered bathrooms and picnic tables beneath the canopy of large trees.   We were glad to be free of the car and ran to an empty picnic table.  Mom would methodically remove our food from carefully packed bags.  She would then ask us which piece of chicken we wanted.  Greg, what you want?  Kenny, what you want?  Karen, what you want?  Thomp (my father), what you want?  Hollering out what we wanted, before we were asked, did not change her method, nor did she move any faster.   One by one, we would receive.  It was a most loving act; a piece of fried chicken wrapped in white bread from the hands of one’s mother.   

It was late summer and the sun was most formidable.  Wrangled together, we were rushed back to the car by my father.  He was motivated to reach Cheraw by a particular time.  This means nothing to children as we tried to avoid the burn of hot vinyl seats.  Mom found towels or something for us to sit on.  For the remainder of the trip, windows were rolled up and down to change the temperature in the car.  From the backseat, we would proclaim the obvious, “It’s hot!”  And from the front seat, “Roll down the windows!” Other times, the front seaters would ask “Is that too much air on you?” At some point, in response to our restless demands, my mother would yell “Take a nap!” 

For entertainment, there were comic books, coloring books and library books.  Just books.  And when that wasn’t enough, backseat brawls would break out with arguments and a few elbows.  This was the natural occurrence when siblings are sausaged together for hours in a hot car. Sometimes my mother would intervene with telling one of us to move over as if there was space to move over to.  Usually we were frozen in place by a single line from my father “Now stop all that fighting back there!”   We traveled on; eating snacks, reading, making up games.  We began to ask Are we there yet?  All questions about the distance between cities were answered by my father.  Somehow, we reached our destination by the early evening.  

The coming days were full and simple.  Relatives were visited, telling us how much we had grown.  We played with cousins in yards and ran in and out until we were told “Stop running in and out of this house!”   I ate peaches, larger than the size of my hand; warm and delicious.   We made homemade ice cream with my North Augusta grandma; taking turns churning the ice cream.  My father would tell stories of his childhood and Sunday dinners at big Ma’s (his grandmother) house.   At night, I would fall asleep by an open window, listening to strange night creatures and staring out into the blackness.  Each day had its own adventure. 

Soon, all too soon, my mother would be up again early, frying chicken.  Clothes had been washed and repacked.  We knew our visit down south had come to an end.  We headed back north, the same way we came; together.  

Happy Valentine's Day!

I remember one Valentine’s Day that happened to coincide with me being in a relationship.  I finally had a man on the right day of the year and I was going to make the most of it.  But everything that day was chaotic and ridiculous: a lot of traffic and driving, the production of “getting ready”, selecting a restaurant with an hour wait, getting home very late and dreading work the next day.  At the end of the day, we were just two tired people, manipulated by aggressive marketing and bending to social norms; me with my high expectations and him ambivalently going along.

We made it to the restaurant and settled at the bar.   We began to chat like the good friends that we were instead of the possessed maniacs we had become.  It helped that the restaurant had a lovely piano bar.  The musician was warm and pleasant and smiled to himself and everyone passing by.  As we waited, my boyfriend talked about a number of things, but mostly about growing up in Chicago.   In a matter-of-fact way, he revealed something very personal and sad that happened in his family.  In that moment, I was not aware of the piano man and his songs, or the crowds of people, but only the words coming from his mouth, and oddly, the lack of expression on his face.  However, I was deeply affected by what he was saying.  He paused and said “I can see your eyes watering up and I really appreciate your care and concern.”   

What happened in that moment had nothing to do with cards, candy, balloons, flowers or jewelry.  It was simply a heartfelt exchange between two people.   It was a moment in which one soul connected with another without shame or pretense.  There was sharing and understanding.   And isn’t this what we all want, to be more fully known, understood and accepted? 

We live in a time in which so many are craving validation and the assurance that they really matter.  Why else would people go to such extreme attempts to be recognized?  We see this everywhere: at work and at home, among the rich and poor, in the media, in politics, at social events, at school and even in religious institutions.   

Fortunately, there is something that we can do.  We can initiate heartfelt exchanges with those around us.  We can take the time to look someone else in the eye and let them know that they matter by listening to their story without judgment.  We also have to be vulnerable and share our story with others.  It doesn’t have to be something sad and depressing.  I’ve revealed embarrassing missteps that resulted in raucous laughter.   

Whether you are alone, with friends, or partnered in some way, I wish you a Happy Heartfelt Exchange Day!  

Hydrangea