500 Miles (and More)

I recently went on a 3,000 mile road trip to deliver my daughter’s dog, Isla, to her. Driving solo from New Hampshire to our pre arranged meetup location in Arkansas allowed me a lot of time for thinking and praying, and I thought I might share.

For context, I love Isla, ( pronounced Ees-luh) but she is my daughter’s true companion. The World’s Friendliest Dog tried to engage with a ‘spicy cat’ also known as a skunk. Predictably, it didn’t end well. Isla ended up with her face liberally coated with the noxious oil that is nearly impossible to banish. I tried the dish soap/ baking soda/ hydrogen peroxide combination and it barely took the edge off. A trip to a patient groomer only helped a smidge. Isla was now a stinky dog with a spiffy haircut. Gagging every time Isla walked by, I considered consulting a wizard for a magic spell. In the end, I settled for sending a flurry of text messages to my daughter threatening telling her that I would be driving south with the dog ASAP.

This was the first time since I lost Barry ( my late husband) that I was driving beyond ‘errands and appointments’ territory so I consulted my memory banks to access the stored knowledge of “What the Husband Would Do,” before going any great distance. Hey, even Passenger Princesses pay attention.

I started my preparations by going for a costly ‘oil change.’ And by costly, I mean it was my fault I had not tended to the car sooner. As I explained to my younger daughter’s therapist, I have a personal hierarchy of grief and car maintenance hadn’t made the cut until now. Similar to Maslow’s well known hierarchy of needs, this is Rogers’ hierarchy of grief. All rights reserved.

Do you see car repairs on the infographic? Me either. Some decisions I make willingly, some reluctantly, and some are thrust upon me by malodorous dogs.

Feeling like a confident, competent adult after getting the oil changed, having the rotors resurfaced and new brake pads installed, I loaded the car with food, both human and canine, and all the other accoutrements for Isla.

Isla greeted the road trip with her typical tail wagging enthusiasm. She hopped in my minivan, ready to greet adventure along the way. She didn’t care that I had built her a generous nest of blankets in the back. She sat in the back seat, her body language hyper attentive as the miles flew by.

As I reached Connecticut, the new rotors and brake pads were put to use quicker than I care to admit. Isla was paying closer attention than I was to a sudden slowdown in traffic that had me bobbing and weaving like a Nascar driver and thanking God profusely for keeping myself and the other drivers near me safe. Amid gulping, gasping breaths and tears that were now streaming down my face, my fragile confidence shattered. Who was I to ever believe I could navigate my late husband’s homestate without being distracted by a thousand different beautiful memories? I wept my way through the remainder of the state, as the walls I had carefully constructed for the past 500 days were washed away, yet again. Grief is both light and shadow.

I reached my evening destination in New Jersey. I stayed with an old friend, his dog greeted my dog with a cautious greeting bark. I felt much the same. Worn out emotionally from the drive, I was eager to get some sleep. Isla was kind and kept me company on the bed, which I really needed. I know some people reading this will say it’s bad doggy manners to invite them to share the bed, but I couldn’t bear to be alone. It was so disorienting to be in my home state and feel like such a wandering stranger. I have grown accustomed to the slower pace in New Hampshire, and I am at peace with that.

The next day began with the birds singing and the sun pouring through the windows. I got a very early start and as New Jersey and Pennsylvania farmlands found themselves in my rearview mirror, I found myself returning to my ‘other’ home state – Virginia. I wound my way through the timeless beauty of the Shenandoah Valley, enthralled by the low hanging clouds hugging the Blue Ridge Mountains. I spent a part of my childhood growing up on a farm in historic Charlottesville, where my best memories include endless exploring of Buck Mountain and its streams, selling our produce along the roadside, getting scars from a barbed wire fence, and sleeping in a hammock under the stars. I attended grammar school with a little boy named Elvis. True story. No, not that Elvis.

As the miles passed, the names became indicative of the region. Towns and roads with names ending in Fork, Gap, Hollow and Ridge tickled my imagination, daring me to tell their stories with pride. Appalachian people are an amazing mixture of humanity. Indigenous peoples – the Cherokee, Shawnee and Iroquois. Later the Scottish, the British, the Dutch and Germans would immigrate. Enslaved African Americans were brought by force. Today’s country music can trace its roots directly backwards to the ballads sung in the hollers of Appalachia.

I crept closer to my next destination – my brother and sister in law were waiting for me in the town of Bramwell, West Virginia. To arrive there, I had to drive over mountains that made my ears pop, curving around roads that had me holding my breath, praying to God, and gripping the steering wheel with intention. Also admiring the beauty that was determined to surprise me around every bend.

Arriving at my destination, Isla immediately endeared herself to my brother and sister in law by promptly vomiting on the second floor of their beautiful three story Victorian home. I barely had time to apologize for feeding Isla the better part of my roast beef sandwich earlier that caused the issue, before they had the mess cleaned and my brother was blaming me for Isla’s woes. Isla could do no wrong with them. My brother took Isla out for walks and generally spoiled her silly. Isla, being the total hussy that she is for men, gave my brother full access for unlimited belly rubs, which he happily obliged.

Isla and I slept so well, I didn’t really want to leave in the morning, but there was a rendezvous date and I had to keep to the schedule. After a one night stay in a farmhouse in Tennessee where Isla cheerfully barked at turkeys, I reached my destination in Arkansas.

I had chosen a rustic Airbnb with great ratings. To be very fair, this historic recreation homestead would have been amazing to explore – if I wasn’t staying the night alone. When my daughter and her fiance arrived to collect Isla, they took one look at my surroundings and implored me to leave, immediately. I am not bashing the state of Arkansas, its people or the host. The property was just incredibly isolated and my kids didn’t want me to stay alone. I like to think of myself as capable, I have traveled to other countries on my own. Their concern heightened my state of vigilance to Defcon 1 and the thought of them leaving me behind began to bother me. I was engulfed in a strange wave of a primal childlike fear and it was growing with every second. I took a photo with my sweet kids, gave a final pet to Isla and then I honored my gut feeling and asked them all to wait five extra minutes. I collected my belongings and followed them out to the main road where we parted ways – they were off to Houston, and I was back on the road to find a hotel in Tennessee.

After a good rest, I returned the next day to my brother and sister in law’s home, arriving in time for a delicious dinner and fabulous conversation. I signed copies of my new children’s book for their neighbors ( see below) and then made my goodbyes to them.

I don’t know if Skunk Dog was my good luck charm, because I had no travel troubles when I was with her – but once I had accomplished the goal of passing the barking baton – that’s when the challenges hit. My GPS failed, the weather turned rainy, traffic delays. I had intended to be in New Jersey before sunset, but instead, arrived in my hometown way past bedtime. I collapsed into bed, thinking of home sweet home.

The final day of my trip allowed me to wander my hometown, a place I left behind when I became Barry’s wife. I went all over town – old schools, old jobs, the library, the house where I grew up. My childhood house shrank and the tree out front grew. Strange, that.

I felt out of place in all the old haunts. There was one place though that welcomed me home as one old friend to another. Three streets from my childhood home is a secluded cul de sac where you can sit by the Ramapo River and play, or ponder, or in my case, pour out my heart. I opened the door to my car and stood listening to the current. A house had been built that wasn’t there before and an older man was outside, looking at me. He kindly asked, “Can I help you?”

Could he? I am so much more than I was before I became a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a widow. New Jersey to New Hampshire all those years ago, now back again. 500 miles. 500 days since Barry went to heaven.

Could he? Would he help me?

“The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord, as the rivers of water: he turneth it whithersoever he will.” Proverbs 21:1

I am not a king, but I know I can trust the hand of the Lord. The irony of this river being the last place I would visit on my trip, is this very spot was where I had renounced my faith as a teenager, and now I was there to thank the Lord for his immense goodness and for the turns he had taken me on, on this river of my life. To thank him for Barry, for our great romance. Thirty five years of marriage, ten children. A love that is tucked inside me to the cellular level. A love that visits me nightly in dreams.

I realized I was not 500 miles away from heaven. Not 500 days away from Barry. I am 500 days closer.

I am 500 days closer to my Lord and Savior hugging me, and that’s pretty exciting stuff.

I answered the stranger with my hand over my heart, my voice choked with emotion, tears falling quicker than I could stop them.

God met me where I was, because that man did help me. He pulled up a chair for me, invited me to share my story, and had me laughing and marveling at stories of his own. As we watched herons fly overhead, my new friend told me a story of an all white deer that he had spotted recently at the river. In every culture and legend, an all white deer represents new beginnings. The symbolism was not lost on me.

I left the river long ago as a girl. I returned as a woman. I waved goodbye as a beloved daughter of the one true King, ready for home.

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