On the road to somewhere....or maybe not

Recently I went on a road trip. I wrote here and there, but wanted to follow the trip up with my feelings.......so here they are.

Road trip.....what can I say.....great, fabulous, exhausting, sad, headaches, laugh out loud funny, warm, beautiful, loving. It was 1700 miles in six days, two women, four girls and a really big tank. And for once, I was never in charge. In a remarkable way that was the best part. I think I'm giving up the old in-charge, task master Joan Judge more and more each day.....and wonder who this new person is. A few steady things about our holiday, Holiday Inns, swimming and wine in the evenings. Because we swam at the hotel pools every night, the girls thought it was like being at Disneyland. Chelle was an angel, a frazzled mom, and my friend. She's so driven. And yet, I know I couldn't have done the road trip without her. I feel like I have to find her a job in Seattle....she's been laid off from WaMu. She's a powerhouse, a very senior exec, in charge of more people than god. I have issues and seriously don't want another friend to leave me. (A little selfish on my part....definately old Joan behavior there).

As we drove towards my parents in California, I became more and more anxious. The flatness, the greenness, the poorness of the Sacramento Central Valley flashed past my window as we drove 515 miles in one day. The girls in the back of the tank, listening to iPods, watching DVD's, and Emma with her proverbial - "I need to go to the bathroom" at the top of every hour. I was short of breath; anxiety replacing my normal friend of pain. My nerves were frayed by mile upon mile traveled, taking me further from my island home taking me back to the ole homestead of youth, high school, tender years, faded memories of ghosts gone by.....but this was now. I was a 49, gray haired, one boobed woman returning to a place that really didn't exist anymore. I was nervous, but I was different. My mom needed me and I realized last year that I need my father more than anything and wanted to be with him again. Although filled with anxiety, I also was full of anger at my father, why here....why did he have to be here. Why couldn't he be up with me? I had cancer in Seattle, why couldn't he have cancer there.

My parents are staying at Beale AFB, the last Air Force base my father was stationed at. It's nestled at the toes of the foothills near the Sierras. It's vast land; soft rolling hills covered with bright green grass that waves slowly like large waves in distant deep oceans. You see old oak trees; limbs gnarled with it's many fingers, branches trying to stretch upwards toward the sky only to be curled and weighed by age, leaves lightly scraping the ground instead. I remember the base from the old days, busy with bright young and sharp servicemen, fast planes of many colors and shapes......and here it was.....old, quiet, beautiful, peaceful, sad. A side comment, here's a beautiful piece of land our country owns and does nothing with.....where is the government employing many of our families, where are the bright young servicemen, where are the jobs that fueled the economies of small town Americana. Perhaps, its better that our government does nothing with the land.....if by chance they did sell it, the beauty might be spoilt to concrete and paper-thin houses of progress.

I get lucky, Chelle, the driver, me, the roadmap reader, decide to by pass my old homestead of Yuba City. Relief runs through my veins. I don't have to worry about running into anyone I know, I don't know who I am yet - I'm still working on this new Joan - and she's still an infant, just not quite up to talking of past, present and future. We skirt east, driving past Marysville on the other side of the river. We've decided to stay in the wonderfully tacky town of Lincoln.....the fastest growing town in California, or so the sign says. As we drive down the final two lane highway after a long day in the tank, I say you'll know Lincoln by the huge grain silos – as it was what I remember about the town from my youth. The silos are just as I remembered, but the place is covered with cardboard cutout beige homes with their duplicated green turf lawns. Wow, where had all these people come from...... where was the river, where was the open land dotted oak trees that I knew from before. I guess this is progress.

I don't know how Chelle managed the children during the days while I visited with my dad during the afternoons, but our nights were full of bad food, laughter, and splashing in the pools. One of the best nights was when I painted the girls fingernails. Chelle took the toes. Blues, pinks slapped on moving hands. I'm not sure how, but I ended up with Martian green adorning my fingernails....hmmm maybe too much wine sloshed down in paper cups between friends.

My dad was worse than I thought. Emma tugs on my sleeve. She says his face is gone, it's vanished to be replaced by the white gauntness of illness – “He has no more smiles, Mama....I know sweetie, they'll be back one day”. He's lost over 50 pounds in 4 weeks. He's thin, more or less still my dad...perhaps similar to the tall, slim soldier I knew long ago when I was Emma's age. Hannah and Emma were fascinated by ny father's new belly button, otherwise known as the shunt for his feeding tube. It's six inches higher than his old belly button; it's his new nourishment center. White liquid flows into it like mother's milk used to flow through his other button. Like cancer Joan from last year, he can't keep anything down. His throat is burnt raw; bleeding from the daily radiation treatments. He's throwing up, over and over again. I watched him, seeing me from last year. It's painful, for me a reminder of the past and possible future, for him it's the now. He'd rub his head just as I had done after I'd lost my hair. We'd sit side by side in big leather chairs, quiet, the hours moving slowly by, both of us staring at the green oceans outside. Whatcha thinking about Dad, I'd softly say. He'd rub his head, stare off into the distant and after a while when I thought perhaps he didn't hear me - would say.....I just don't understand why the doctors can't tell me if I'm going to live or die. This is me, it's last year, it's now. The doctors will never tell you, you just have to live for today, but I say nothing and quietly sit in the big leather chair next to my dad.

My mom is my dad's cheerleader. When he gets well, when we get out of here, when we get to Florence, when we get to your house - it's her mantra. You are going to get better; you've got to eat - would you like some pear juice, maybe soft peaches. It will be 50 years in June, she loves this grumpy old man. The whole time I watched him, I felt worse for my mom. Mom, open your eyes.....he's bad. He's going to get well; he's got the best doctors. You'd love his cancer facility, the nurses are so caring. It’s his life now. It's where he's happy. Mom, you have no help. You're alone. Its okay, I've been through this before - I remember. Towards the end of the visit, I had signed onto the mantra. Dad, you've got to work on getting better. I'm going to Italy, wouldn't you like to meet me there......Spain is just around the corner, you know how much you love Spain. And as my mom dropped me off at the hotel at the end of my visit, she leaned over and hugged me and says words of love into my shoulder.....She whispers words just for me, her daughter. She’s cared for me as she now cares for my father. I know what he knows; I have felt what he now feels. Later, I cry for what seems like forever. Chelle and I proceed to get stinking drunk and tell each other secrets to comfort each other.

Our next fabulous adventure was a mad dash of 350 miles west to San Francisco. We met up with Doug - my girls just love him. They also loved seeing Dylan's other messy, small little home. Doug is my ex, btw. We went over to the mission district for lunch up at Dolores Park. The park has an incredible broad view of the city. Burritos and Tacos, yum, my favorite from L'Tacqueria were scarfed down by road trip girls on the go. We followed up the lunch with pedal boat rides on Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. It was warm, the kids giggle at turtles, Canadian geese mating, and boats crashing into each other. It was 80 degrees....and my toes were warm as I stretched out in the back of the boat while my children tried to steer it. Doug pedaled us forward and backwards. Cameras were precariously passed from one boat to another, photos flashed....cheese.....go away geese.....look at that building....it's an old Chinese Pagoda - it's so pretty mama. My former home, shared with friends.

Then the long grinding haul home, two tired women and four not so giggly girls drive up the I-5. We stay in a tacky hotel on the outskirts of Sausalito and Mill Valley.....another Holiday Inn....same free breakfast day after day. Favorite parts of the adventure......my friends, my girls, Ashland, Oregon....I definitely would love to go back and walk around the quaint shops – two women and four giggly girls who want everything in sight do not make for fun window shopping. Plus I'd like to see the plays. The town was having a film festival - it looked noir-ishly interesting and I was longing for Dylan to be there. (I still have "hope" that some day soon Dylan will come to his senses and go to film school). Another favorite part of our adventure, a rest stop we made in California - olive trees everywhere - beautiful girls running on the green lawns. Oh yes, and passing through "Weed".....a smaller, than small town, located somewhere on I-5.

And so concluded my road trip......no we weren't Thelma and Louise, nor Chevy Chase on one of his vacations......okay, just maybe, just a very small portion of Lucy and Ethel......but mainly we were two women and four giggle girls in a very big tank.

Just a little thought......

The rain came down today. The sky opened up and the water beat down onto the long not yet mowed spring green grass with its yellow spiky dandelions spreading out wild. It was a gray day. Wet and cold. Yet inside our home the fire was warm. The last bit of our winter wood burned in the fireplace. My high back chair was comfy soft, my old worn, woolen blanket wrapped around my legs. Maggie lying at my feet, as Rainer sat in our leather Morris rocking chair with Hildy curled up on his lap he swayed gently back and forth. The lights are soft, outside it’s dark. The day almost over.

My day has been filled with the ringing of bells, Alleluias, egg hunts, pretty dresses, and smiles. Friends gathered together in old rituals comforting both young and old as girls in pink bunny ears sat with friends. Ringing telephones with tones of love filled my day, words of happiness back and forth between children and parents.

And I remember back to when I was a young, old mother of a spirited 15 month, toe headed boy, living in the city. I have memories of walking the aisles of an Old Italian grocery store, my young son squirming in the shopping cart. I gathered spices, young vegetables; meats wrapped from the butcher, warm breads fresh from the oven handed over the counter top from the baker for our holiday feast. The overwhelmed mother putting boxes back on the shelves as her D-Monster waving his little hands had grabbed every little thing his fingers could reach. Old shuffling grandmothers with large purses and baskets perused the aisles, gathering foods for their own holiday feasts. Back and forth, we traveled down the aisles amongst a city of strangers. A little boy, his mother trying to take the carrots from his fist, leaned out of his cart and said to wise, sage old neighborhood women filling their baskets with ripened red tomatoes, “Bona Pasqua” The Sicilian women, startled, looked up from their basil and tomatoes, and stood in silence for a moment. The women’s wrinkled faces broke open with joy and burst into a rushing stream of Italian as they surrounded and fawned over my fair haired boy. I remember the bright smiles and language barriers of the day, as I watched a little boy making friends.

And to all I say…..Bona Pasqua.