We've hit the road and are headed for the heartland once again, this time to celebrate something quite special. My husband's great grandmother is turning 100 this week, and it happens to be on the 10th anniversary of 9-11. That's right folks. Great Grandma was born on Septembber 11, 1911.
September 11th was the most profoundly life-changing event I ever experienced, so there is something poignant, and I hope cathartic, about celebrating the centenial anniversary of a birth that coincides with the decade anniversary of something so tragic. But I don't want to focus on September 11th right now. I'm sure in the days leading up to 9-11, I will have more to say, but right now, I'm trying to embrace the sense of relief that usually accompanies the first day of hitting the road.
The week leading up to a road trip is always hectic, but the lead up to this trip has been so eventful it has my head spinning. In addition to making soap, getting stitches out, doing five loads of laundry in two days, making sure all the bills were paid up, and doing all the running around and "we come bearing gifts" pre-trip shopping, we tried to squeeze in some family outings while the weather was still nice and we still had a generous, on-call, free babysitter in town (aka grandma).
The backdrop to all this running around was an unusual series of natural disasters completely uncharacteristic of Upstate New York, to include one earthquake, a hurricane, and an F1 tornado, all in the last two weeks. I'm growing increasingly concerned that the end of the world as we know it is, in fact, approaching, and I'm just hoping that New York doesn't get swallowed up by the ocean or blown off the map by a meteor shower while we're away. I'd really like to have a home to come home to.
While I was busy tying up loose ends before our trip, dad headed back down south on schedule. Mom decided to extend her stay to help my sister out before leaving for the wiinter. The day before he left, dad decided to crank the heat at about five in the morning, as if to make one final rebellious statement against all the warm blooded people in the house who still have their circulation. So I woke up early, restless and hot under my covers (yes, it is still August, even in New York).
I shuffled into the kitchen where I found dad's b.b gun resting against the wall, which told me he was tormenting the poor squirrels who raid the bird feeder again. I picked up the rifle and aimed it out the back door, into the woods, which I frequently use as a clearing barrel these days. I pulled the trigger. A b.b darted out, confirming that dad had left the unfriendly toy gun lying around loaded and pumped--something he insists he never does.
Moments later, my son came running cheerfully out of his room yelling "Morning Papa! Half a donut Papa?" and despite the never-ending hazards, I was grateful my son has had the opportunity to spend as many summers as he has with his grandparents. Of course I'm equally grateful for the roof over our heads, which is why I usually just bite my tongue and keep my eyes open for baby land mines.
Dad was up and out before any of us were awake the next morning, and I felt pretty sad when I got the baby out of the crib, and there was no Papa sitting in the Lazy Boy for him to run out to. Sure it was nice to walk out into the living room and not feel assaulted by some booby-trap inadvertently left for my child to discover, but it was kinda lonely to be the first ones up and about in the house too.
No sooner did dad's trip home end did ours begin, and here we are, on the road again. Road trips can drag on forever, and the older I get, the more painful it is to sit in place for too long, but all that being said, there is something unmistakably liberating about hitting the road. After all the stress of a year filled with surgeries, a summer spent waiting on a job to come through, and still not having a place of our own to call home, you could say we're looking forward to this particular trip as much as we are to arriving at our destination.
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