Messes

A lot of people thought it was insane that I drove to Florida in three days. But I had motivation. My cousin, who started from east Texas, was intent on getting there first. He wasn't happy that I was going to FL at all, thinking that I'd just stay in Cali, stupidly content to let him handle everything. As if. His idea for taking care of my father's home was to "have a team come in and get rid of everything -- they get paid by keeping whatever they want." I thought it was a sick joke until I realized he was serious. I rather strenuously objected and said the "stuff" in the house was my family stuff, and I wanted to go through it. He said, "I was just there a month ago. There's nothing of value in that place." I told him that what he considered valuable might be very different from what I considered valuable, and I wouldn't have a team of strangers throwing out or keeping what was mine. He bristled at that, and said it was his, too, since the will splits my father's belongings between the two of us. We had this conversation a couple of hours after he told me that my father had died, and it got heated. At the end of it I made it clear I would be in Florida as soon as possible, and he said he'd be there first. I wasn't just doing 90 mph for fun.

 

To illustrate my cousin's vast knowledge, I have to share what he said to me over the phone, as I drove across the country. He said it shouldn't take me too much longer than him to get to Palm Harbor, since I only had "about another 12 hours" more than he did to drive. 

 

Me: 12 hours? What planet do you live on?

 

D: We drove to California once. It didn't take too long. About 12 hours. It's no big deal.

 

Me: 12 hours to get across Texas, then there's New Mexico, Arizona, and the width of California, since I live on the coast. 

 

D: Nah, if you don't stop too much it's no big deal. Are you stopping at motels?

 

Me: Yes.

 

D: That's gonna cost a fortune, and take more time.

 

Me: Sleeping alone in my car wouldn't result in too much sleep, since I'd be worried about my safety, and the driving time remains the same. 

 

D: It really shouldn't take you too long, since you're doing this. Maybe 17 hours at most.

 

Me: I can't talk on the cell phone and drive. Bye.

 

I decided, before seeing him in person, that I didn't want conflict and confrontation and I'd be nice. I wouldn't argue, I wouldn't let him see what I truly thought of him, and I would keep calm. I did manage that while he was still in Florida. Before he went ballistic. But that happened later, as I drove home.

 

I listened to both my cousin and the last caregiver, Flo, tell me that they "cleaned" my father's house. Both claimed to have done this in the last month or so, when no one was there since my father was in rehab and finally the hospital. No matter how it might've looked before, to claim to have cleaned it is something they should both be ashamed of. You don't take the garbage out and say it's clean. You don't throw all the food away so it can't rot and say it's clean. I don't know what else they might've done, besides that. I know I spent 30 minutes using a solvent on the front of the fridge to get unknown marks off it. I know I found cat feces on the porch and in a couple of closets. I know I didn't want to know what I scrubbed up in the bathroom. I know that every single surface in that house had to be not only wiped, but often chipped at to get it back to clean. I know I had to work at the stains in the carpet, and only some of them responded, and that I had to bail out the chest freezer in the shed (because, duh, you can't simply take the food out and unplug it and call it done). 

 

I had to rent an ozone generator to get rid of the smell. Opening windows doesn't cut it when it gets that bad. The generator had to be run every night for a week, and then the ozone blown out every morning when I showed up for another day of sorting and packing and throwing stuff out. I had so many papers to go through that I ended up with 12 hefty bags worth of that alone. I moved furniture by myself and staged the rooms to look as appealing as possible to potential buyers. 

 

One neighbor came over after I was done and said, "Wow. Damn, girl, this is amazing. You know, you might make someone a damn fine wife someday!" I hit him.

 

During the first couple days at the house, after my cousin filled his car with "not valuable" stuff and took off for home, a neighbor came by and offered to clean the gutters for me and weed the front yard. I knew that Mark had done work for my father because my father had told me about it once when we talked on the phone. I didn't know he'd also ripped my father off, because that must've been embarrassing to my father and so he didn't tell me that part. I knew that someone else had once quoted me $50. to do just the gutters (I have a small fear of ladders, and doing them on my own, with no one to hold the ladder for me, was out of the question), and I knew Mark's mother. She and I have the same name, and would sometimes get each other's mail if someone forgot to put a lot number on the envelope. I once got a six hundred dollar check, here in Ventura, because her boss didn't put her lot number on the envelope and the mail person forwarded it to me. I could have legally cashed that check, but my values dictated that I call her, tell her about it, and mail it back. When Mark asked me if I could pay him upfront, so he could go buy some medicine, I didn't think twice about it. 

 

He immediately pulled the weeds in the small garden, then told me that he'd checked out the roof before and I needed to replace 12 shingles. I figured he was angling for more money and told him I couldn't afford to do any repairs, and that it had been raining really hard and there were no leaks. He told me they might not show up right away, blah blah blah, and I said, "What part of we're selling this AS IS don't you understand?" As he tried to convince me that he should replace the shingles he made a point of saying that he only weighed 160 pounds, so he wouldn't be stressing the roof. I told him I didn't care what he weighed, to do the gutters and nothing else. He didn't do the gutters.

 

He didn't show up the next day or the next. I went to his house and he told me he'd had a "touch of the flu" but he'd get to them that evening. He didn't show up. By this time I'd talked to my neighbors about it and they all told me that Mark's "medicine" was marijuana and he couldn't be trusted and I shouldn't have given him the money and he'd never do the job. Lovely. I was trying to remain calm, trying to deal with the stress and not make myself sick, and this bozo thought he was going to scam me. Somehow, the fact that I'd been so honest with his mother made it even worse.

 

I went back to his house and banged on the door. He came out spewing excuses. I put my hand out and said, "Give me my money back. You didn't do the job. Give me $35. back. You can have $5. for weeding." He said, "I don't have it to give you. I spent it." I said, "You shouldn't have spent money you didn't earn. Get your ass over to that house and clean those gutters." I said this while being literally in his face. 160 pounds. And skinny, with no muscle. I could take him and he knew it. He babbled about babysitting and how he couldn't go till later. I was amazed anyone would trust him with their child. I said I'd go door to door in the park and tell every person I could find what a thief he was and make sure he never got another job. He promised he'd do the gutters just as soon as someone came back and he could leave, even if it was storming. I said he'd better. I said, "Don't make me bring your mother into this!" It was threatening at the time, though sounds ridiculous to me now as I relate it.

 

He called me to say he was there, doing it. I told him I would know if it was done when I got back. He called to say he was finished, and report on how many bags he'd filled. I'm not sure if he was afraid I'd hurt him, or just that I'd tell his mommy.

 

But he was the exception to the rule where neighbors were concerned, just as David is the exception to the rule where cousins are concerned. Most of the people there were great. Dewey checked on me regularly, Sharon gave me anti-itch cream when the bugs bit me, Gerry took two carloads full of stuff to the thrift store for me, and Donn gave me the lowdown on prices and sales in the park.

 

When I first got there, my cousin said we should give away the power wheelchair to someone needy. I said we should sell it, since it cost over 5K new and hadn't been used much. He had a habit of repeating himself, possibly because he had so little to say but enjoyed his own voice, so touted giving it away again and again. I put up a notice in the clubhouse, told Donn (who knows everyone), ran an ad on Craigslist, and then called a couple companies who sell them, to see if they'd buy a used one back. No one wanted to buy the power chair.

 

When I left I told the real estate lady to go ahead and give it away if she could. And my cousin told me that he knew someone who needed it. I should've called the woman back, but I completely forgot it. Another drive, a funeral for my parents, I kind of had things on my mind. So I don't really feel all that badly about the miscommunication.

 

I was on my way home, somewhere in the mountain time zone, when the real estate lady called me. She wanted to tell me that she'd found someone to give the chair to. A man she met in the grocery store, who has polio and was using a decrepit old manual chair, now has a nice, power one. I was happy to hear it. Then I remembered my cousin. I called him to tell him. He went nuts. He screamed that she had no right to "sell" that chair, and raved about what else she'd steal. I tried to say that if his friend was on their way to get the chair (he'd told me the needy person lived in northern FL), I might know of someone else with a chair and could put them in touch. He wouldn't listen to anything. He was livid. He wouldn't let me get words out, no less finish a sentence. Then he started cursing at me. Saying I was supposed to sell it and hadn't done my job, and now I'd screwed up giving it away, too. He said I "hadn't done anything" and F-bombed me some more. I looked at the cell phone, found the disconnect button, and pressed it. 

 

I then called the real estate lady to warn her he was on a tear. I'd already had a call, the day before, from someone else who'd been yelled at by my cousin, so knew he'd call her. He did, and accused her of selling the chair rather than giving it away. He said he was going to fire her and she told him he'd be responsible for paying her commission regardless -- him, not the estate, since he'd insisted on signing the contract alone. She apparently infuriated him even more, because he called me again. When I suggested that he seemed far more upset than made sense, since it had always been his idea to give the chair away, and that maybe he'd planned to sell it behind my back, keeping the money for himself, his reaction told me I'd hit a nerve. There was more yelling and name calling before that call ended, too.

 

I then talked to the lawyer and told her I don't deal with liars or bullies and so wouldn't be dealing with him anymore. She said I had to, until the probate was over and we'd sold the house. I told her I didn't have to do anything. I think she may be on the cousin's side now. I was polite to her, but resolute. No one yells at me and curses at me and calls me names and says I didn't do anything and gets another chance. I wasn't crazed, as my cousin seemed to be, but I was hugely stressed.

 

So after three weeks of upset, hard work, and more upset, I was driving in the middle of nowhere, and I was more tired than I'd been from the start. Those long days on the road are always tiring, as I've said, but I'm vigilant about keeping myself alert. It usually involves a lot of caffeine and sugar, unfortunately, but one accident in a lifetime is enough. But, I guess because I was so focused on my cousin and that drama, I didn't realize how tired I was. Then I dozed off. I think it was only for a second, but my eyes closed. When I jerked awake again, absolutely terrified for that instant, I was still in my lane, still driving along with no one near me for quite some distance. My guardian angel at work again. 

 

I then screamed at myself, in addition to slapping my face, and turned the air conditioning on high. I pulled off the road as soon as I could (it's not actually safe to just pull over to the shoulder when out in the middle of nowhere) and walked around and drank more caffeine until I felt I was under control again. Still, it was a long day.

 

It was also a really long trip. So much happened, a lot of it I'll probably never write about, and overall the good outweighed the bad. The bad is just more interesting to read. I learned a lot about my friends and family, about how I deal with things, and what I'm capable of. Ever since I turned 50 I've noticed a change in my reactions. I won't put up with things I always put up with before, out of a feeling of awkwardness or wanting to be polite. Now that I've gone through this, I feel even more strongly that you get what you give in this life, and you have to value yourself whether those you're dealing with do or not.

 

The best thing that came out of it, by far, was learning how to accept help, and how my friends and family were so willing to offer it.

 

I'll be there for you if you need me. Just, not for a few weeks. :-)  I have this work gig I need to get to....

Crossings

Anyone who's seen my favorite movie, The Shawshank Redemption, knows that Andy and Red crossed the border into Mexico at Fort Hancock, Texas. The characters actually crossed the border. I merely drove by a sign for Fort Hancock, but never got off I-10, yet I had to stop for a Border Patrol checkpoint. Weird, right? According to a few people I told this to, if those coming across the border illegally make it in and think they're safe, they are then nabbed at this stop on the freeway. I think it had more to do with drugs, since a drug-sniffing dog circled each and every car. And, being in Texas not Arizona, I didn't see anyone being asked for their papers.

 

Some people in some vehicles were questioned at length. When I pulled up, after refusing to move my car for a moment because the dog was so close I thought I'd drive over his paw, the agent said, "You're a US citizen?" I said, "Yup." He said, "Have a nice day." Didn't even check to see if I'd come here illegally from Ireland.

 

I forget where I was, but I think it was also in Texas, when I stayed at a Red Roof Inn for the night. It touted itself as being "newly renovated." My main concern is checking for bedbugs at any and all motels, but I did notice it was a nicer room, with a big, flat screen TV. The bathroom was new and modern, too. I didn't pay attention to the shower until the next morning. It was bathtub size, though just a shower. Across half of it was a glass panel. No door, just the panel on the side where the showerhead was located, and an opening on the side where the water controls were located. I suppose this makes it easier to clean, and cuts down on the laundry you'd do if you hung a curtain.

 

What they got wrong was the placement of the showerhead. It was mounted in the ceiling. And the ceilings in these newly renovated rooms were about 9 feet. So by the time the water reached the top of my head, at five feet five inches, it didn't have a lot of oomph. I don't know what bald giant designed the thing, but he didn't think it through.

 

Here's something I never would've thought of: people write fake obituaries. Now that I know it happens, I can imagine why, but it's the sort of thing that wouldn't have entered my mind on its own. The day I left my aunt's house in Florida, I first stopped in Gainesville, about 3 hours up the road, to visit my friends Frank and Gayle. We had lunch together and a nice, long visit. Then, sitting in the parking lot of the restaurant, I called the newspaper in New Jersey to inquire about emailing the obit I'd written and paying over the phone with my trusty Mastercard. The woman said I'd have to fax the death certificates (I wrote a double obit, since both my parents' ashes were being interred) before they could run it. 

 

It was hot, I was now about four hours "late" as far as driving for the day was concerned, and I had to find a place to fax from. "What kind of people write fake obituaries?!" actually came out of my mouth, rather than being screamed inside my head. "Sickos," said the nice woman. I called Frank and Gayle and they told me where to find an Office Depot. The nice guy who worked there didn't charge me as much as he should have -- on purpose. It was as if the universe felt my frustration and wanted to say, "See? There are plenty of nice people in the world, too."

 

However, those nice people are not, generally, Japanese. Oh, go ahead, call me a racist. But Japanese tourists are some of the most annoying people on the planet. Why yes, I have a story to back that claim up. The night I got to New Jersey (after checking into the Best Western, walking to the Red Lobster, watching a small hurricane blow in and begging a ride back to my room from two strangers), I went to bed early. Then I woke to the sound of a loud engine. It sounded loud enough to be a fire engine, so I got up to look out the window. It was a tour bus. I couldn't think what there was to see in East Brunswick, and went back to bed.

 

The next day I needed to buy a few things at the store. When I got to the check out line there was a group of Japanese people ahead of me. Their mission in life seemed to be to drive the cashier stark, raving mad. They all had something to buy, and all wanted to pay for each item separately, handing him hundred dollar bills each time so that he ran out of change and had to call for more. Just when he thought he was done, another item would be thrust at his face. All the while, they were crowding me. I tried to keep back, but they had no sense of personal space or boundaries. I was patient. I know what you're thinking, but it is possible for me to at least pretend to be patient at times.

 

Finally the cashier had had enough and he told this one woman to go get in line behind me, that she should've paid for the latest item when she paid for the one before that, and it was my turn. She looked at one member of the group who apparently translated for her, and she very huffily got behind me. Then pressed up against my back. My elbow desperately wanted to sink into her gut, but I told myself I was a representative of my country and to just put up with it for a little while longer. Am I good or what? Then she charged ahead of me again, shouting something in Japanese, and waving the hairbrush or whatever it was in the cashier's face. 

 

I said, "Maybe it's the last thing and they'll just leave," in a quiet voice. He took it and rung it up, and accepted another hundred. When he got done with my order I handed him my money and said, "Do you have any change left?" He said, "Where did they come from? Why are they here?" I should have put two and two together at that point, but I was preoccupied.

 

Lots of things happened that day. I had an appointment about some estate stuff, went to look at the cemetery (the church and grounds were flooded during Hurricane Irene earlier this year), met with my niece, Melissa and great-niece, Nadia, at Barnes&Noble, bought a few newspapers for the copies of the obit, and had dinner with Russ, an old friend. The tourists were the last thing on my mind.

 

Saturday morning I knew I couldn't eat, but I wanted a glass of milk before heading over to the church for the funeral. Just a glass of milk. Something in my stomach that wouldn't make me sick. When I walked into the lobby I stopped in my tracks. The Japanese tourists had taken over the breakfast area. Yes, the same ones from the store, plus many more. It was their bus engine that woke me, them that made a simple trip to the store a long, annoying experience, and now they were standing between me and my milk. "Excuse me" had no effect whatsoever. "Please" fell on deaf ears. It took a few minutes just to get a glass, and I finally went over to an employee and asked her to help. She got a carton of milk from the kitchen and poured it for me, away from the crowd. I thanked her, then said, "Why East Brunswick?" She didn't know, either.

 

When I'd talked to the priest from St. Peter's, Father Shelly, the first time, he'd told me that they have a Memorial Garden for the spreading of ashes. I said that was nice, but we had a family plot and my parents wanted to be interred there. He had to look into whether or not a vault was required by law (it wasn't) and double-check that there was room. They sell the right to be buried, not an actual plot, because the cemetery is hundreds of years old and the church retains all rights to the grounds. So, there could be someone who died in 1731 buried in your family plot, and I guess they want to make sure the bones aren't going to get in the way. He explained it with much more tact, but that's the gist.

 

As I waited to hear from him, and I spent 10 - 12 hours a day going through papers, scrubbing the house and trying to sell the wheelchairs and such, I thought about why anyone wants to be cremated, then buried. To me it's like, pick one or the other, you know? But the thing is, you have to do something with the ashes. And it's illegal to spread them just anywhere. It's an ecological hazard. And a lot of people don't want to keep an urn with their dead relative inside on the mantle. So interment became a thing to do. Still, I was wishing that my parents' wishes hadn't specified it, since I liked the idea of the Memorial Garden. Until I disposed of Molly.

 

Molly was our cat before Billie. Molly was a feisty, little calico who ruled our hearts for years. I didn't know that my mom had had her cremated when she died, and that she'd saved the remains. But the little box with a label on it stated it was her inside, and there was a small bag of white ashes. Except no one, human or animal, is actually reduced to ashes. There are bits of bone mixed in. And this is distressingly obvious when you scatter them. I had no idea what to do with Molly. I didn't want to keep her, as my mom had done. I'd never throw her away. So it seemed that breaking the law was the way to go. I took the bag out back to the garden, told Molly that it was one of Mom's favorite places, and sprinkled her among the palms and trumpet flowers. And it was slightly horrifying. I tried to picture Molly when she was alive. She liked to stand up on her hind legs and box with me. She also liked to draw blood with her claws. Good times. But those bits of bones ruined the mental image. She made me imagine the cremation process, instead. That's bad enough with a pet. No way I wanted to risk it happening with my parents. So I decided that interment of the urns was really for the best.

 

Then I saw the hole that had been dug in our family plot. It was approximately three feet by three feet by three feet. Just dirt, since no vault was required. I thought about the recent flood, and wondered if my brother Jimmy's remains were even still in the ground next to this current grave. Father Shelly apologized for the roots. There were about four good-sized roots that the grave-openers had had to cut through, and the ends were sticking out of the walls of the grave into the open area. I told him it was fitting, because my mom had called me out to the back yard lots of times to cut roots out of her way when she had a flower to plant. But, just a dirt hole, looking so raw because of the roots, not all that deep, vulnerable to the next storm that came through, had me on edge.

 

The priest performed a very nice service. For the most part I have no idea what he said, but I didn't expect to remember it since I was so stressed. I know he talked about how we say someone has passed "away" as if it's the end of them, when they're going on to an afterlife and it's really just a transition. That was comforting. But then he asked that we join him in reciting the Lord's prayer. And, dear God, I'd just seen a clip from the movie The Campaign the day before. A clip in which Will Ferrell, as a phony Christian candidate, mangles the Lord's prayer in a most hilarious way. My lips were moving, saying the words, but inside I was fighting a massive urge to laugh. There would've been no way to explain laughter at that point. I got through it, somehow.

 

Then he asked if I'd like to throw a handful of dirt onto the urns. Well, no, I didn't really want to do that, but since he asked I couldn't see a polite way out of it. I walked over, grabbed a hard handful (the mound was packed solid) and threw it in. A rock hit the top of my mom's wooden urn, with a loud thunk, then bounced off. There was an awkward moment of silence, then I said, "This is appropriate, too, since rocks are also the bane of a gardener's existence." Everyone laughed, thankfully, because I really had to at that point. I have no doubt, if my folks were watching from an otherworldly vantage point, that they approved.

 

Russ treated us to lunch, then my cousins bought me dessert from Mendoker's (world famous) Bakery, and I went to another motel, not wanting to start my journey back till the next day. No longer having "the daisies" in the car with me was as strange as transporting the urns had been. I hadn't heard a word from my sister (still haven't), and I felt that I was completely alone in the world. It's stupid, really. I have aunts and an uncle I love, cousins, a sister-in-law, nieces and nephews and greats, too. Not to mention some of the best friends ever. But having no immediate family, no longer having a parent (however strained the relationship might've been), was a foreign and very empty feeling. 

 

More than a couple of friends have suggested that I was crazy to drive from NJ to St. Louis in one day. But once I'd spoken to Mary Lou, and she said she'd really like to see me, and I was very welcome to stay overnight at her house, it was more than my macho side kicking in and saying hell yes I could do it. I craved a connection, wanted to be with a friend more than I wanted to stop and rest and take my contacts out and let my sore butt try to unflatten. Some people always know the importance of friendships, and some of us only gain a true appreciation when friends become our family.

 

All this expression of true feelings does not mean I'll be cooking Thanksgiving dinner for you all anytime soon, though. Don't get carried away.

 

I still haven't talked about nearly beating a guy up to clean the gutters, or falling asleep at the wheel. It really was a long trip.

Kinda, sorta, mostly about driving

My father was 86 years old, and not a healthy 86. He'd had high blood pressure forever, a quadruple bypass, stents, Parkinson's disease, a chronically painful back from an accident with a jackhammer when I was 3 (so, yeah, a loooong time), and various other ailments. Plus, after my mom died, he was miserable and didn't want to live anymore. Our issues aside, I didn't expect to be sad when my father died. And I wasn't. I felt relief, that he and my mother might be reunited (if that sort of thing is actually possible), and his suffering was over.

 

When I got the news I emailed people and called a couple, and worked feverishly to try to finish cleaning the house I was house-sitting. I didn't get the floors done, which was strangely upsetting at the time. I was fine, though. Until I called Panther (totally not her real name, but it's a fun pseudonym) to talk about leaving the house a little early. She asked how I was and suddenly not crying became a Herculean task. This never happened with anyone else, so I blame Panther, or some quality in her voice that must've sounded mom-like, for causing it. She told me to leave extra food for the pets and get on my way, that the floors weren't important. I was going to argue about the floors but was afraid it'd make me sound crazy. So I left.

 

I took off from Ventura the next morning at 5:15. John came outside in his bathrobe, tsking at me for not waking him to say goodbye (I thought I was being considerate), and asked what my plan was for something going wrong. I shook my head and said, "I do not plan for things to go wrong. I plan for things to go right. If something goes wrong, I'll deal with it." He was very unhappy with me when I left. A woman alone, without a plan.

 

I said a prayer of thanks for smooth sailing and protection and I was off. It was o'dark thirty on a Sunday morning, so I didn't expect any traffic. Then I saw an electronic sign warning of an accident ahead. Luckily, for us other drivers, it happened on an overpass. We simply exited and reentered the freeway and it barely slowed us down. The next accident (apparently no one expects others to be out and about on a dark Sunday morning) had traffic stopped when I got to it, but within a minute we were slowly moving. I was behind a truck. He had high clearance. I have a Saturn. One of the lowest of the low cars. He drove over a still burning fusee (or flare, for those not raised by an ex-railroad employee), and I followed him, saying, "Oh! Blue, I'm sorry! Think of Tony Robbins!" I told God that smoother sailing was what I had in mind.

 

As I got near the area where I had to find the 210 freeway, the sun came out in a big way. It was so bright and glaring that I couldn't read any of the signs. I said, "Cloud, please. Some cloud cover would be good right now." And clouds moved over the sun and I saw the 210 sign and got in the correct lane. So I said, "How about a winning lottery ticket, too? That would also make my day." So far, God hasn't gotten back to me on that.

 

I had packed in the most bizarre, haphazard way. The only things I was careful and thoughtful about were the clothes to wear for the funeral. Literally. I had so few tops with me that I had to stop at a thrift shop to avoid doing laundry every other day. And I knew I'd thrown my sunscreen in somewhere, but for two days couldn't find it. So that first day on the road I had on a t-shirt, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt over that to protect my arms from burning. And I drove through the desert. Cali and Arizona. It's hot even without a heat wave. And I had the idiotic, clearly stress-induced idea that I shouldn't use the car's air conditioning -- to save on gas.

 

I stopped at a gas station for the precious elixir, and as I filled the tank I noticed a man with a pickup truck checking me out. He was at the next set of pumps over and he was practically staring at me. Not just at my chest, either. He was making definite eye contact. I actually thought, "Oh yeah, I've still got it." Then I went inside to use the bathroom and saw my reflection in the mirror. My face was nearly purple and I looked like someone about to succumb to heat exhaustion. He was likely just considering whether or not to call 9-1-1. I started driving with the a/c on, gas mileage be damned.

 

As has been previously discussed, I have a heavy foot when I drive. On the open road, with little or no traffic, I fly. The speedometer on the Saturn says it'll do 130. I've never tested that. In fact, 100 mph made me nervous so I didn't go that fast, either. But I would often do 90. I thought of it as interval driving. When traveling that fast you have to be super attentive. A swerve to avoid tire debris is different at 90 than at 70. That kind of attention is tiring. More tiring than driving all freakin' day long is in general. So I'd do it for a while, then rest at the speed limit for a bit, then do it again. Interval driving. And also as I've mentioned before, the speed is rather necessary to make up for how often I stop. Liquid in/liquid out, for both me and my car.

 

I was still in Cali when the two guys in the Arizona car passed me just to pass me. We were both moving at the same speed, around 90 mph, but they clearly didn't want to be the following car. Men. Their license plate read: AZBYCHC. After some consideration I decided it probably meant Arizona By Choice. But my initial thought was, "Ass by chance." I'm sorry, it was. After a few minutes of us doing the tandem fly-bys of other cars on the road, we came over a rise and saw the CHP on the side of the freeway. We both hit our brakes, but the cop pulled out and came after us. That's when I started chanting.

 

"Go after the out-of-state plates, man, go after the out-of-states."

 

He pulled up next to me but I refused to look over and make eye contact. If he could read lips, from the side, he'd know I said, "Not gonna make it easy for ya. Use your lights, dude. Better yet, go after the guys with the stupid plates. Come on, ass by chance?" For whatever reason, he moved up, turned on his lights, and pulled over the Arizona guys. Of course, after I left Cali behind, I had the out-of-state plates. 

 

When I drive long distances there are two things that occupy my mind. Avoiding getting a ticket, and reading the signs. I have a friend who writes novels in his head on long drives, but I find I have to pay more attention to my immediate surroundings in order to stay safe. Gwen used to say that the person with the job naming paint colors had the best job in the world. They're random and idiotic, for the most part, so the namer must have a terrific sense of humor and a lot of autonomy. Well, the person who comes up with what to put on the road signs has the second best job. In Arizona: Dust Storms. That's it. Dust Storms. What about them, huh? Are you simply reminding me that I'm in the desert so they can happen? Are they more likely to happen here than elsewhere? How long should I worry about this, for ten miles or until I hit Louisiana? After about a dozen Dust Storms signs, I decided that they simply wanted to remind out-of-state drivers that they were in the desert. And as soon as I decided that the next sign said, "Dust Storms Next 10 Miles." At that point I understood why so many signs have bullet holes in them.

 

In Florida, on Route 19, I was surprised to see a sign that said, "Bear Habitat 12 Miles." It was the third day, I was only 30 or so miles from my aunt's home, and it was ten at night. I was tired. I couldn't decide if they meant that a bear habitat had been built and we were 12 miles from it, or that for the next 12 miles we'd be in bear country. The latter seemed absurd. Of course, it turned out to be true. I'm gone for two years and bears move in.

 

In northern Arizona there was a sign that said, "Watch for Animals." I said aloud, "Care to be more specific?" Another mile down and the sign said, "Watch for Elk." Okay doke, they're easy to spot. So, naturally, a small coyote ran across the road in front of me. I find my entertainment where I can when I drive.

 

By the way, best county name of all, by far, is in Texas. Deaf Smith County. I don't think you have to be tired and sleep deprived for that to make you laugh, right?

 

Speaking of signs, I did something for John while on this trip. He has a brother in Mississippi, and his brother had something of John's that John wanted back. This something (no one can tell me definitively whether what I carted was legal or not, so I'm not going to publicly blog that I did it) couldn't be shipped. John asked if I'd be willing to pick it up for him and bring it back. I said sure. He said it might be illegal (as if my speeding isn't), and I said, "So? It's not as if I'll have a sign on my car that says, 'Mary is carrying such and such in her trunk', right?" Why do I speak?

 

As truly good luck would have it, I was only doing 74 in a 70 mph zone when I passed a cop who took an interest in my car. I don't know why. I was part of a long line of vehicles in the right lane, not speeding, and not the only out-of-stater in the bunch. But he came out of the median where he'd been sitting and pulled up in my blind spot. He just sat there, pacing me. I glanced back and saw him tapping at his laptop (which should be illegal, if anything is -- how is that safe?). Since I have no outstanding warrants and my car isn't stolen, he obviously found nothing. He moved up a bit, checked out a truck ahead of me, then pulled him over, the poor guy. But the fact that he'd checked me out like that, when I was doing nothing, made me think I was giving out "I've got you know what in my trunk!" vibes. So I came up with another daily prayer.

 

I started each day with, "Thank you for making my speeding invisible to the police." You may laugh or scoff, but I blew by countless cops after that and none of them budged. Yes, it could've been due to laziness and luck. But I like to think I had an invisibility shield around Blue.

 

When I started on this journey I dismissed the comments about how brave I was, how the commenter couldn't possibly do what I was doing. I thought they simply didn't understand, had never driven across the country and thought more of it because it was the unknown. I often say that I've lost count of how many trips I've made across and up and down this land. I say this because I'm too lazy to actually think about it and count them. But, just to give you an idea, I went from Cali to Florida on the southern route, up to New Jersey, and back to Cali on the middle route, and Mastercard never once called to talk about a strange charge pattern. I've done it a lot.

 

What I came to realize, after a particularly bad day on the trip back when a scary thing happened, is that I am brave. And not everyone can do this. Anything can happen, at any point along the way. And you might be hundreds or thousands of miles from home or anyone you know. Bad things can happen at home, too, but they're not quite as bad when a friend is a phone call away. You don't know which exit to pick at night, or which motel is safest, or who might be in the ice machine room when you go to get some. And those are just the small worries. The truly hard part is driving. Starting out each morning even though you got a crappy night's sleep and you're already tired. Driving, paying attention, putting up with the heat and sun and sameness, paying attention, talking your body out of the charley horse that wants to form in your right calf, paying attention, cursing the fact that your butt is nothing like Jennifer Lopez's and died two hours ago when you still have hours left to sit on it, and paying attention. Driving is work. And because motel rooms are so expensive (anything under $60. is something to celebrate, with $70. to $80. being the average "cheap" rate nowadays, once the taxes are added), you can't take a leisurely pace. Camping alone calls for more guts than I possess. So, yes, cross country driving does take bravery and it is dangerous and there are a lot of people who couldn't do it. I'm strong. I always have been. I do what needs to be done and what I say I'll do. You can count on me. Even after you're dead. 

 

So I'm sorry that I was dismissive. Thank you to all who complimented me. Thank you for the prayers and the positive thoughts and the support before, during and after. Some, maybe all, of the friends and family who helped me would prefer to be anonymous. But I'd love to do "more" than just say thank you, if I knew what that more should be. One friend literally made it possible, and safe, for Blue to carry me those six thousand plus miles. Another got a windfall and shared it with me, to take some of Mastercard's fun away in piling up those interest amounts. While one cousin was/is a horror, others were there to offer me food, friendship and support when I needed it. One aunt put me up and put up with me while I scrubbed, sorted and stressed. Another let me know a gift would be waiting for me at home, so I could look forward to it. An old family friend surprised me by being there for me from the time I got into New Jersey, through the funeral, and by treating us all to a very nice lunch afterwards. Another "helped me with the tolls" in an extremely generous way, and would laugh at me complaining about the New Jersey Turnpike's $6.50 fee if he was on Facebook to read that particular post. He more than covered it. Money is practical, yes, but it also lessens the worry. And that's important. Other kindnesses were important in their own ways. 

 

I know there are friends who regretted not coming to the funeral. Don't. You sent your regrets and you know you've been there for me in other ways, at other times and now. My mother and father had gotten to the point in their lives where they found funerals too dangerous to attend, because of how the upset could affect their health, so they'd understand. Spotswood, NJ is a long damn drive from anywhere. And I don't wish a long drive on anyone. :-)

Let's Just Get the Weirdness Out of the Way Up Front

My long, strange trip started with the ghost of Billie the cat coming to visit me. No, I'm not making this up. About a month before my father died, and unknown to me at that time, my cousin killed the cat. He readily admits to it, and told me about it with a laugh in his voice. I'd say it was nervous laughter, but I don't believe that. At the time of the visitation, I thought, as did the Florida neighbors, that Billie had been taken away by the Humane Society. So I was at a loss as to what was going on at night in my bedroom.

 

The first time it happened I was asleep. I woke to the distinct feeling of a cat jumping onto my bed. Except, when I opened my eyes, there was no cat. I sleep with my bedroom door closed and locked, so a stray cat getting in would've been fairly impossible. I told myself it was a dream. A few nights later I was lying in bed, not asleep, thinking about how I wasn't asleep and would really like to be, with my eyes closed, when the cat jumped onto the bed again. I didn't open my eyes. I stayed very still, hyper aware that I was awake and therefore not dreaming, and doing an internal freak out over why I just felt a cat jump onto my bed. Then it walked over my legs. That did it. Eyes as wide open as humanly possible, body scrambling back against the wall, legs drawn up to my throat. About all I didn't do was scream like a little girl. There was no cat. No anything else, either.

 

I told John about it the next morning, not even caring that he'd mock me, because it was scary and I wanted someone to know about it, as if that would lessen the fright. He said, "You're craving a kitten. That's what it means." Not what I expected as far as possible responses from him. I said I did not crave a kitten, or the required kitty litter pan, or the vet bills. Not at all. It remained a mystery. Then I felt my father pass.

 

On July 6, while house-sitting in LA, I tried to watch the Barbara Walters special on Heaven, and what it means to various cultures and how to get in (besides by being dead, of course). I couldn't stay awake. I just kept dozing off and missed the majority of the show. A little before 11:00, pacific time, I gave up and turned the TV off and rolled onto my side, hugging the pillow and allowing myself to go to sleep. The thought came to me that I was an orphan, but I was far too tired to examine it. At 5:48 the next morning my cousin called to tell me that my father had died -- "at around two in the morning." Two in the morning, east coast time. 

 

I was surprised that he was gone. A nurse had told me less than 24 hours before that he was "doing okay." But I wasn't surprised that I knew somehow. That seemed perfectly normal to me.

 

After I arrived in Florida and was talking with my cousin, (and it's difficult to write about this trip and him in particular and still live by "if you nothing nice to say, say nothing at all"), he told me, with a laugh, that he'd lied to the neighbors about what happened to Billie. He'd come out to Florida, from Texas, and discovered fleas in the house. When you stop paying the pest control people and no one treats the cat, fleas will happen. He bought bug bombs. Then he "couldn't find" the cat. It's a mobile home and she was a fat cat. Only so many places to hide. When he couldn't find her, he simply set off the bombs anyway. With her in the closed up house. Then he did it again, just to be sure he'd killed all those fleas. When he saw Billie after the poison cleared, he called the Humane Society to come get her (plan A not having worked, if you ask me). They came out, and wanted to be paid to take her away to the pound or wherever she'd go. But when they went to pick her up, they realized she was dead. So the poison worked slowly. He got his money back and took care of her body himself. He said he "buried her at the beach." I managed not to cry, not to call him any of the names fighting to be voiced, and to keep a look on my face that suggested I believed him. He went on to tell me that he had to lie to the neighbors, or they might've told my father that Billie was dead and upset him. I said it was good of him to keep my father's feelings uppermost in mind. I discovered a level of self-control I didn't know I possessed. 

 

Later, safely away from him and in the guest bedroom at my aunt's house, I thought about the timing of when he'd killed Billie and when I'd felt the cat jump on my bed. I didn't know the exact dates, but it was close enough for me to believe that she came to say goodbye.