There’s a sheer frustration in traveling, especially when such travel isn’t for for the pure pleasure of going, seeing and doing.
On one hand, your eyes and mind are given the incredible gift of an unusual environment. On the other, you’re on a mission. You have to be in a certain place at a certain time and, despite the want of viewing more, you can’t stop and take it all in.
A few weeks ago I received a call that wasn’t necessarily unexpected, but was decidedly unwanted. My brother-in-law in Houston, who had been suffering with cancer, had lost his battle. The call came just days after I had attended the funeral for Mary Lundby and on the morning I had planned to attend services for Rosemary Thompson. I wish I could describe that moment in some amazing term that would allow those reading this to pause briefly and reflect on the choice of words. Unfortunately, the only term that comes to mind is “icky.”
When the call came that Friday morning, there was never any doubt that I would go and be with my sister. Actually, as soon as I had learned that my brother-in-law’s cancer was terminal, I had told my editor that I would be taking time off when it was time. When it was all sorted out, my oldest daughter and I climbed into the car for the journey to Texas. We left that Sunday amid snow warnings for Iowa and an extended forecast of ice across the Midwest.
Before we hit the I-80 interchange along I-380, we phoned family in Oklahoma to let them know we were on our way, and that we hoped to utilize their spare bedroom or floor that night before continuing on south the following morning. My brother advised against it, telling us that the ice storm was expected to start later that same day.
Having been stranded in an Oklahoma ice storm previously, I had no desire to relive the experience. We altered our driving route south into St. Louis, Missouri. Once there we reviewed our options on the “blessed” BlackBerry GPS system and ended up driving through portions of Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana before coming to a stop in my sister’s Houston driveway.
That first day, while racing to beat the ice storm, we didn’t stop except for food and fuel. But the second and third day our eyes feasted on unfamiliar landscapes, bayous, swamps, incredible (if not completely scary) bridges and general cultural diversity. We ate a huge platter of soul food from a greasy spoon in Jackson, Mississippi for breakfast (which cost only $2), took a wrong turn and drove across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway from Matairie to Mandeville, Louisiana (the longest bridge over water in the world), and toured the still saddening disaster recovery in New Orleans and other coastal towns (which I wrote about for Iowa Independent). As often as we cursed road construction, we marveled at the views presented to us on back roads and state highways.
Several points during the trip I remember thinking to myself how I wished that I had more time to show my daughter the French Quarter or to relax on a pier. I wanted to dip my toes in the Gulf, taste-test every mom and pop restaurant along the way, and talk with every person I encountered. Then my thoughts would turn again to my sister and brother-in-law or to Mary. How often had they silently prayed for more time?
Throughout the trip I glanced from my sisters to my brothers to my own daughter. I wondered if this would be the last trip she and I would take together. Even if I have years and years in front of me, which I sincerely hope that I do, she will soon make use of the wings I’ve so carefully cultivated.
Since returning home I’ve been more or less in a funk. My mind keeps drifting back to my family. I kick myself repeatedly for not making that drive years before, when my brother-in-law was healthy. He was a real Texas cowboy and it would have been amazing to have traveled with him and my sister from one rodeo to the next. I just never thought I had the time… or maybe I thought there would always be time.
While digesting everything from the trip, I opened this photo from the beach in Louisiana again. Throughout our life people come and go, leaving their prints behind. Yet, if we don’t take the time to ask them back — if we don’t make the effort to reconnect — the impressions they left behind will fade.
