Jesus, so glad You traveled with me to Louisiana, where I was blown away by an excellent writing conference in New Orleans; bayous, sugar cane fields and shrimp po’ boys in Cajun country; and fun times with piney woods cousins. And thank You that, despite my superpower for getting lost, I kept one step ahead of the hurricane … mostly.
During my pre-driving days, I liked it, especially on long family trips. Bright-colored signs, flags, cones and barricades broke up eternal stretches of highway. Burly men (no women were road construction workers then) drove huge trucks, bulldozers and graders. Lines of traffic snaked along roads, semitrailers’ air brakes whooshed and horns honked — all very exciting.
Road construction kept Dad and Mom occupied. Flapping maps, they forgot to monitor my siblings and me. When who-was-looking-at-whom crises arose, we kicked each other freely.
Dad’s mutterings graduated to addressing aloud the sins of fellow drivers and construction workers. A pastor, he didn’t swear. Instead, he called them Zeke, Pete, Cedric and Mephibosheth:
“Zeke and Cedric, are you going to yak all day? Or actually work?”
“Park it or drive it, Mephibosheth!”
He addressed irritating women drivers as Gertrude. Unless he was really mad. Then they became Sister Shumpett.
“Sister Shumpett, you’ll send us all to Jesus!”
We kids loved the drama.
As an adult, I’m not so thrilled. Hostile plastic barrels target my car. Reduced lanes can’t accommodate a skateboard, let alone semis rocking around me.
Other drivers go crazy, too. Speed limit signs become mere mirages as they rocket past at warp speed. Others meander across skinny lanes as if they are middle schoolers riding bikes on a summer afternoon. Pete, Cedric, Mephibosheth, Gertrude and Sister Shumpett are alive and well on summer highways during this millennium, too.
So how can I ask a stupid question like, “Is road construction good?”
Before you add my name to the above list, consider this: The only thing worse than road construction is no road construction. In the Bahamas, Hubby and I nearly drove into the sea because no one had bothered to barricade a washed-out road, let alone, fix it. In Ecuador, we smacked our skulls repeatedly on a bouncing truck’s ceiling, following la calle para burros (the road made for burros).
We’ve also driven in Michigan, a state whose annual highway repair budget is $15.83. Unfortunately, for family reasons, we continue to drive in Michigan.
I’ll soon pull our pop-up camper, as Hubby insists I spell him. Look out, Zeke, Pete, Cedric, Gertrude, and Sister Shumpett!
And you thought you already were being driven crazy.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite — or least favorite — road construction story?
O Lord, I’m sure You remember my griping to You about road construction last summer. Griping out LOUD. OMG, I’m so glad You—and the workers—didn’t listen.
Pulling a camper is like being followed by a shadow that’s gained 2,000 pounds.
Sure, I’ve spelled my husband en route to nearby campgrounds. When straight roads send him to Lullaby Land, I save our lives by driving short stretches on state highways.
But brave roaring, dragon-like semis on interstates? Motorcycles whipping in and out of lanes at Star Wars speeds? Han Solo, I’m not.
Especially as the rearview mirror is rendered useless.
My husband installed extended mirrors. However, they warn that reflected objects are closer than they appear.
That’s nice. Even humble, and I admire humility. But sorry, nice mirrors, when changing lanes, I want accuracy. And if up-close-and-personal encounters with construction barrels throw you off, I really don’t need views up my nostrils.
Especially when parking. We often need to stop for gas, food, and/or restrooms. Those paltry reasons pale, however, as we focus on more profound questions: Will we find a place to park the camper? Afterward, can we get out?
Once, as I contorted truck and camper in my 100th effort to leave a convenience store, Hubby lost all hope. “Will we spend the rest of our lives behind Kwickie Mart?”
Not exactly the retirement we’d envisioned.
I tried to console him: “Living on Little Debbie® cakes and beef jerky wouldn’t be so bad.”
My attempts scared traffic to a dead stop. A hundred yards away.
Thus, we finally left Kwickie Mart.
Hauling a camper never bores us. Once, while I was driving down South, purple-cloud giants charged us. They spit lightning and smothered us with avalanches of rain that drowned car taillights ahead. If I had risked pulling over, my flashers would have disappeared, blown out like candles.
Did I slow down? Not much. Storm or no storm, drivers who never drive less than 85 mph — on roads, shoulders and in parking lots — can be found everywhere. Even in easygoing Mississippi.
My prayer life shot up several notches.
Hubby’s, already flourishing, set new records.
Jesus took the wheel.
Afterward, when He had guided us to sunshine, Hubby tried to talk Jesus into taking all my shifts.
He smiled and said, no, we needed to grow in faith. Together.
Though Hubby still had theological doubts about Kwickie Mart experiences, and I struggled with mirror-nostril crises, we indeed have learned to depend on Jesus and each other. With His help, we and our 2,000-pound shadow return home, safe and sound.
We will hit the interstate again soon.
It’s only fair I give other drivers advance warning: Look out, I’ll be pulling a camper!
Prepare to grow in faith.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you ever pulled a camper? Driven an RV?
Summer trips with stops at Stuckey’s and Storybook Land. Sleeping in genuine teepees at the Woocheekoochee Warpath Motel — with a swimming pool!
A normal vacation for many kids during the 1960s.
But nobody ever accused my family of normalcy.
Any July morning, Dad might casually inform my mother he planned a family departure to visit his parents in Louisiana. At 8:00 p.m. that day.
Mom would have scorned comparison to that Wonder Woman hussy in bustier and tights, but she herself represented a true marvel. By 8:00 p.m. she had washed and packed clothes. She had canned every ripe tomato and pickle within 20 miles. Pets were exported and schedules rearranged with the decisiveness of a Fortune 500 CEO. Why Mom also cleaned our car remains a mystery. One root beer stand stop, and the station wagon again was infested with French fries, seats freshly graffitied with ketchup.
Her most amazing feat: Mom never hired a hit man to bump off Dad.
Arriving home, he flattened station wagon seats, loaded suitcases and cooler, then stacked us on top.
Dad loved all-night driving because he endured few dollar-eating, time-consuming restaurant stops. No tinkle breaks every two miles. Nothing to interrupt his love song of the open road — after children nodded off.
I often awakened with a sibling’s foot in my ear or an arm strangling me in a half nelson.
Sometimes, I awoke to discover Dad catching a few winks along an unknown highway. Waking siblings — especially the baby — was a capital crime. So, I watched in mingled hope and terror as headlights approached: hope because they lit the darkness; terror because the Hatchet Murderers of America were traveling tonight, too.
Mornings, we played tag under cedars at a Tennessee rest stop while Mom cooked bacon and eggs over a campfire. The smells alone made the all-night drive worth it.
After crossing the Mississippi River, we soon stopped outside Monroe, Louisiana. Mom extracted The Washcloth from its plastic bag to scrub us, making us smell as if we’d spent the night in a dumpster. Still, it ranked above spit and shine with The Kleenex, Mom’s substitute if she forgot The Washcloth.
Dad called Grandma from a phone booth. We all knew this dialogue by heart.
“Mama, we’re in Louisiana.”
“No, you’re not.” She’d fallen too many times for his fibs. “You ain’t left Indiana.”
“Mama! We’re just outside Monroe.”
She didn’t buy it.
Finally, Dad admitted what Grandma had suspected all along: “The car broke down. We haven’t left home.”
“I knew it! Ya’ll think I’m soft in the head.”
His favorite part of “normal” vacation: 30 minutes later, when we pulled into Grandma’s driveway.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What vacation memory can’t you forget?
Travel often aggravates the phobias we accumulate along
life’s journeys.
Football commentator John Madden and many others fear
flying, which is known as aerophobia. Others avoid travel in automobiles
(ochophobia) or trains (siderodromophobia).
Some even fear long
words (hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia).
However, I’ve
never encountered a term for my own neurosis, the “pack attack.”
My husband does not understand why the sight of a
suitcase gives me the shakes.
What could you expect of a man who not only survives, but
thrives on taking brown pants, two brown shirts and brown shoes? For fashion
excitement, he adds a beige cardigan.
I like brown, too. But which brown will suit my mood
tomorrow? Sepia, sienna or russet sweater? Raw or burnt umber toothbrush? So, I
bring all my browns.
No wonder my dearly beloved struggles to understand. The
man’s wardrobe controls the weather. If he forgets an umbrella, The Weather
Channel calls a halt to all thunderstorms within 500 miles of our destination.
My packing paranoia asks, “What if?” I can’t leave city
limits unless my suitcase contents cover every climate emergency ranging from a
Tallahassee Ice Age to an Indianapolis volcanic eruption.
When we visit grandchildren, my entire wardrobe must be available.
As long as Grandpa packs a separate bag, his clothes rarely suffer from baby
body fluids. Let him share a suitcase with me, though, and a pee-a-thon — and
worse — ensues. Although his preference for brown covers a multitude of sins ….
I marvel how his clothes mysteriously collapse into packets
that could fit into a billfold. Once, when I foisted snow boots and my lumpy body
armor bathing suit onto his bag, they promptly folded themselves into hankies.
Inspections present the ultimate torture for travelers
who suffer pack attacks. Not only do strangers unwrap our Christmas gifts and
wave our oversized undies like flags, they risk the entire terminal’s safety.
One flip of a suitcase latch, one zzzzzip!
— and my bag explodes. Shoes fly like missiles, and hundreds in line suddenly
wear my wardrobe. On the positive side, they can expect lots of fashion variety.
When inspected, I miss my plane. My husband, who dashes
for the gate before anyone knows we’re together, always makes it.
Airline carriers should offer therapy — and marriage
counseling — for travelers in airports. They’d never go bankrupt.
Sessions for luggage also might be in order. My suitcase
flips and flops like an angry two-year-old as I drag it through the terminal.
It attempts to steal other bags’ identity. It tries to get lost when I travel.
I should send it to luggage obedience school.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll send it packing.
Your Extraordinary
Ordinary: Do you suffer from pack attacks? Does your spouse?
Pulling a camper is like being followed by a shadow that’s gained 2,000 pounds.
Sure, I’ve spelled my husband en route to nearby campgrounds. When straight roads send him to Lullaby Land, I save our lives by driving short stretches on state highways.
But brave roaring, dragon-like semis on interstates? Motorcycles whipping in and out of lanes at Star Wars speeds? Han Solo, I’m not.
Especially as the rearview mirror is rendered useless.
My husband installed extended mirrors. However, they warn that reflected objects are closer than they appear.
That’s nice. Even humble, and I admire humility. But sorry, nice mirrors, when changing lanes, I want accuracy. And if up-close-and-personal encounters with construction barrels throw you off, I really don’t need views up my nostrils.
Especially when parking. We often need to stop for gas, food, and/or restrooms. Those paltry reasons pale, however, as we focus on more profound questions: Will we find a place to park the camper? Afterward, can we get out?
Once, as I contorted truck and camper in my 100th effort to leave a convenience store, Hubby lost all hope. “Will we spend the rest of our lives behind Kwickie Mart?”
Not exactly the retirement we’d envisioned.
I tried to console him: “Living on Little Debbie® cakes and beef jerky wouldn’t be so bad.”
My attempts scared traffic to a dead stop. A hundred yards away.
Thus, we finally left Kwickie Mart.
Hauling a camper never bores us. Once, while I was driving down South, purple-cloud giants charged us. They spit lightning and smothered us with avalanches of rain that drowned car taillights ahead. If I had risked pulling over, my flashers would have disappeared, blown out like candles.
Did I slow down? Not much. Storm or no storm, drivers who never drive less than 85 mph — on roads, shoulders and in parking lots — can be found everywhere. Even in easygoing Mississippi.
My prayer life shot up several notches.
Hubby’s, already flourishing, set new records.
Jesus took the wheel.
Afterward, when He had guided us to sunshine, Hubby tried to talk Jesus into taking all my shifts.
He smiled and said, no, we needed to grow in faith. Together.
Though Hubby still had theological doubts about Kwickie Mart experiences, and I struggled with mirror-nostril crises, we indeed have learned to depend on Jesus and each other. With His help, we and our 2,000-pound shadow return home, safe and sound.
We will hit the interstate again soon.
It’s only fair I give other drivers advance warning: Look out, I’ll be pulling a camper!
Prepare to grow in faith.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you ever pulled a camper? Driven an RV?
If you’re like my friends and me, you’re still mulling your summer trips. Whether traveling by plane, train or hang glider, or staying in tent, hotel or castle, we all agree on one issue: We try to avoid places where other tourists go.
We require hotels much quieter — and cleaner — than our homes. Campers hope no one will locate within a mile of their Winnebagos. Both kinds of vacationers pray their rowdy, late-night parties will not be disturbed by some other rowdy, late-night party.
Patrons at both rough-it and refined ends of the getaway spectrum seek restaurants that attract no screamy children but their own.
We want to fill cyberspace — especially the pages of envious relatives — with amazing photos of eye-popping attractions. Attractions that should never draw other visitors, yet must include:
Infinite-sized, free parking lots.
Plentiful, pristine restrooms with no lines.
Classy, dirt-cheap souvenirs.
Educational adventures even grandmas and insurance companies consider safe.
Children, however, have long considered “education” and “vacation” a contradiction in terms. They love tourist traps.
Hubby and his brother, who as children stayed at their grandparents’ Wisconsin lake cottage, could have fed their morning cereal to deer peeking in the windows. Still, no vacation was complete without visiting nearby Diddly’s Delightful Deer Farm.
Today’s media-soaked children still reverence such attractions. Admission fees are in direct proportion to their pointlessness, reflected in souvenirs, e.g., oozy green livers from Mutant Body Parts Wax Museum and litter-shaped candy from Pretty Kitty’s Cat Condo.
Even teens welcome such enticements — if they can ditch parents.
Surprisingly, our college-aged daughter once asked me to journey with her in Honduras, where she’d spent the semester.
My airplane seatmate, a native who had moved to Texas, advised me to remove my necklace before we landed: “Pickpockets jerk them off.” She also counseled me to avoid taxis if I didn’t know the driver personally.
Long and scary story short, my daughter and I did rendezvous, enjoying a tropical paradise together. We also shared a bus ride along a favorite hijacker route to another seaside town. A town where bank security guards carried automatic rifles and strips of ammunition crisscrossing their chests. There, we unknowingly risked our lives watching a tribal dance at night.
At our mountainside 1950s-style hotel, a white cat with malignant eyes kept vigil on the front desk. Sen֮or Blanco listened to our complaints about no locks on our door. The often-AWOL owner didn’t.
But we never had to stand in line.
My daring daughter is currently planning a South American visit. Her husband will go adventuring with her to places tourists never visit.
As for me? Diddly’s Delightful Deer Farm, here I come.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite away-from-the-tourists vacation spot?
Some compare a writer’s life to a monk’s: starved, withdrawn from the speaking/smiling world and — like author Annie Dillard — incarcerated in a closet-like room decorated only with a picture she drew of a cow pasture.
I’ve experienced hermit weeks, although starvation doesn’t enter into the equation. Because I can’t draw cows or anything else, I allow myself a window.
I’ve also holed up in libraries, more exciting than most imagine. Take the Notre Dame library, where I did research for a biography of St. Augustine. Entering the skyscraper bearing its gigantic “Christ the Teacher” mural (known to football fans as “Touchdown Jesus”), I dared not speak to anyone, as even janitors appeared to be Fulbright Scholars.
I fought with a computer catalogue, then hunted for an elevator, which I finally rode to the philosophy and religion department on the 14th floor. Encountering a locked door, I rapped on it.
Silence.
I banged until my fists hurt.
Ditto. I’d spent forty-five minutes for nothing?
A brave aide on the elevator ride down asked if he could help.
“The philosophy and religion department is locked,” I griped.
“Which floor?”
“Fourteenth.”
“The philosophy and religion department is on the 13th floor. Father Hesburgh lives on the 14th.”
Taking a break from libraries, I traveled to story settings. Non-writers assume a publisher arranges free, first-class flights to exotic spots with four-star hotels. Instead, halfway to Cave-In-Rock, Illinois, I stayed at my daughter’s. Having been hugged, mugged and slimed by three sweet grandkids, a dog and a cat, I slept on a sofa. Eat your heart out, Karen Kingsbury.
Afterward, I drove to the enormous cave on the Ohio River where, during the early 1800s, enterprising pirates ran a tavern. They lured flatboat pioneers with “Last chance for a hot meal and mug o’ grog before the Mississip, matey!”
“Guests,” however, ended up at the bottom of the Ohio.
Climbing alone around the cave’s mottled walls, I listened to dead voices while the I-don’t-know-nothin’ river flowed past.
Maybe the Notre Dame library wasn’t scary, after all.
Rachael Phillips, Eileen Key, Cynthia Ruchti, and Becky Melby sampled the popular Door County sundaes.
Many of my stories, though, take place in pleasant places:
I’ve watched children in Peru, Indiana, defy gravity, homework and other laws of the universe by participating in their annual Youth Circus.
I’ve visited all 31 covered bridges in Parke County, Indiana.
I’ve ridden in an Amish buggy whose GPS consisted of the horse’s memory.
I’ve traveled through Door County, Wisconsin, researching that Martha’s-Vineyard-of-the-Midwest setting, including exactly how many yummy cherries are used in their famous Door County sundaes.
Currently, I’m staying close to home. But not for long, because we writers are a brave, daring breed.
Maybe I should set my next story in Hawaii.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: If you were (are) a writer, where would you place your story?
During my pre-driving days, I liked it, especially on long family trips. Bright-colored signs, flags, cones and barricades broke up eternal stretches of highway. Huge trucks, bulldozers, and graders growled and spouted smoke. Burly men (there were no women road construction workers then) drove the heavy equipment. Jackhammers appeared to enjoy breaking up Planet Earth. Lines of traffic snaked along roads, semitrailers’ air brakes whooshed and horns honked — all very exciting.
Road construction kept Dad and Mom occupied. Flapping maps, they forgot to monitor my siblings and me. When who-was-looking-at-whom crises arose, we kicked each other freely.
Dad’s mutterings soon graduated to addressing aloud the sins of fellow drivers and construction workers. A pastor, he did not swear. Instead, he called them Zeke, Pete, Cedric and Mephibosheth:
“Zeke and Cedric, are you going to yak all day? Or actually work?”
“Look out, Mephibosheth! Somebody else, take the wheel!”
He addressed irritating women drivers as Gertrude. Unless he was really mad. Then they became Sister Shumpett.
“Sister Shumpett, are you trying to send us to Jesus?!”
We kids loved the drama.
As an adult, I’m not so thrilled. Traveling anywhere during summer, I go crazy. Hostile plastic barrels target my car. I drive in reduced lanes that can’t accommodate a skateboard, let alone semis rocking around me.
Other drivers go crazy, too. Construction zones become existential: “I drive. Therefore, I am.”
Our Visa bills for gas support that mantra. But that’s all we know in construction areas, as highway signs become mere mirages. Drivers rocket past at warp speed. Others meander across skinny lanes as if they are middle-schoolers riding bikes on a summer afternoon. Pete, Cedric, Mephibosheth, Gertrude and Sister Shumpett are alive and well on summer highways in this millennium, too.
So how can I ask a stupid question like, “Is road construction good?”
Before you add my name to the above list, consider this: The only thing worse than road construction is no road construction. In the Bahamas, Hubby and I nearly drove into the sea because no one had bothered to barricade a washed-out road, let alone, fix it. In Ecuador, we smacked our skulls repeatedly on a bouncing truck’s ceiling, following la calle para burros (the road made for burros).
We’ve also driven in Michigan, a state whose annual highway repair budget is $15.83.
Unfortunately, for family reasons, we continue to drive in Michigan. I may soon pull our pop-up camper, as Hubby insists I learn to spell him.
Look out, Zeke, Pete, Cedric, Gertrude, and Sister Shumpett!
And you thought you already were going crazy.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: So … is road construction a good thing?