September 2020
The autumn day promised scattered showers along the four-hour route. The cool breezes and cloudy skies of late September in the northeast part of the country tease with sporadic pops of brilliant yellows and rich reds among the changing greenery. From Rhode Island to Interstate 84 through Connecticut and New York westbound toward Pennsylvania is a pleasurable drive for the most part. Of course, everything is influenced by the coronavirus. This ride will keep me in my inner circle, the small group of people you see with regularity, with whom you socially distance.
My dear friends have taken up residence in the mountains of Pennsylvania in a modest home in the woods where the nights are dark and quiet except for the soothing sounds of nature. He is a mentor to me and she is his daughter, my sister from another mister (SFAM). They’ve just had a new porch built and cannot wait to share it with me to sit and soak up the smells and dampness of the fall mountainside.
After 2+ hours on the road I can’t hold my bladder still any longer. Unlike the drive through the Berkshires to Rochester, which I have been driving routinely, this route has few easy-on/off service areas. But I found one, a gas station with a bathroom around the side. There is a cop on the lot, standing just past the pumps, speaking to a woman. Other people are buying gas; everyone is masked. I head inside to ask for the restroom key. After taking a racial inventory, I determine that I am the only person of color presently on the property and decide to be as amicable as possible so as to avoid threatening the white folks with my presence. I am travelling alone on a Sunday afternoon at a time when tension is running high for any number of reasons, including a national health emergency. I know how to be nice.
“Hi” I begin. “Can you tell me what station I can listen to the game on?” I ask.
An older man responds, “If you give me a second, I can look it up on my computer.” he says. The Steelers are playing the Texans and this guy seems to know exactly what I’m talking about. I think.
“Can I use the restroom while you’re looking?” I ask.
The bathroom is disgusting, but I use it anyway because sometimes – you’ve got to pee. I don’t wash my hands because I think doing so would put me in contact with more germs than just walking out. When I get back, the man has not yet returned from his computer. A young woman stands at the counter completing a transaction with the other clerk.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say to the customer. Both she and the clerk turn toward me.
She’s hesitant, “Yes?”
“Do you have any idea what radio station I can get the game on?” I ask.
“Oh, I have no idea,” the woman says.
Now the older man emerges with a list of sports radio stations. He hands them to me.
“Here you go I’m not sure where you’re headed but here are a few stations for New York and Connecticut that have the game.”
“Awesome, thank you so much!” I say smiling beneath my mask.
The woman at the counter chuckles a bit and says, “I don’t even know what kind of game your talking about.” Really, on Sunday afternoon?
I giggle in return. “Well I just figured it couldn’t hurt to ask,” I reply. Then as I follow the woman outside the mart, I hear her say to herself, “hmm, that was nice.” I know in an instant she is referring to our exchange and is pleasantly surprised by genuine civility coming from the likes of me.
As I drive into the higher elevations from Providence toward Lords Valley, the foliage takes my breath and leaves me (no pun intended) full of awe and respect for the natural world. The ride is long and while it stiffens my legs, it brings my blood pressure into a safe range. I cannot wait to laugh with my friends. The virus has isolated so many people from loved ones. I have not seen two of my children in nearly a year. Long road trips is how I am staying physically connected to those in my very tight circle of Covid companions.
As I pull into the driveway the excitement of human contact is real and the beauty and serenity of the woodland is unmistakable. The mountainside home where my friends have taken up residence is among the assets in the will and testament of a late family member. The dampness keeps me out of the lower level. It has been a bit neglected, but is entirely habitable and very welcoming. Throughout my life, nature has been a mindful medicine. I step outside of four walls to heal – the ocean, the woods, the mountains, the wind, the animals, the sound, the smells – my panacea. I am staying a few days and have packed light, trying to leave the baggage behind. We are all older folks having existed for 60 years or better, but that does not stop us from hugging one another in salutation despite the virus. It feels so good.
The relationship I share with my friends began forty-five years ago and has persisted through misunderstanding, loss, envy and so much more. The important thing is that it continues. I love these people without condition and they love me back. You know that feeling of belonging? Nothing you do or say, whether in agreement or disagreement undoes the fact that you belong. These are my people.
They feed me and show me the house. The rest of the night is spent watching television, planning a menu for the next few days, and sitting on the new porch enjoying the night air and each other.
Caring for an aging parent is difficult. My sister-from-another-mister (SFAM)
knows this. When they reside with you, that caretaking is at a whole new level and the resulting lack of privacy and personal time renders one almost incapable of self-centeredness-almost. My friend has been caring for her dad for years now; it has consumed her. She is doing it alone. Unlike me, she does not have the luxury of someone supporting her while she supports him. My mom has lived in my home for three years with me and my husband. This 4 hour-long road trip without either of them, feels a tad selfish, yet I relish every moment.
The morning after my trip, I awaken rejuvenated. I shared a double-bed with my sista-friend, and wake up ready for what the day will bring. We are going to get groceries, take a walk outside, marvel at the beauty of autumn in the woods, and explore beyond where she’s already been. After a breakfast of berries and coffee, we bid adieu to her dad, my beloved mentor who has taught me so much about love and loss and aging. It is girl time in the time of Corona and we are so excited to spend this moment together.
My sista and I fill our water bottles and gather snacks. The car ride begins and we drive onto a road leading away from the gated community where my friends are housed toward the small town where we can shop for groceries. We enter the Promised Land; literally Promised Land, PA state park. This is a journey that takes me from Providence to Lords Valley and into the Promised Land . . . I cannot help but wonder what these biblical metaphors are introducing. The Promised Land reminds me of the bible because there it reads “I will bring you unto the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Issac, and Jacob and I will give it to you for a possession; I am the Lord.”
Promised Land state park includes a forest with long winding roads. I love the woods at anytime of year. I am cognizant of the wildlife that hide in and around the trees, underfoot in the fallen leaves, in the skies, and immersed in the waterways. They are there, yet so quietly elusive. We have miles to go in this early afternoon before we reach our destination. It seems like we are completely alone on our travels.
Then nature strikes. “I have to pee,” I announce.
“Me too,” replies my friend. As older women we have had many conversations about the state of our bladders. Mine was traumatized during childbirth and has been less cooperative since. When the urge comes, hers is unrelentingly insistent. We laugh about how are bladders are triggered by the sight and sound of the garage door opening-knowing relief is within reach! Right now, an inside commode is not an option.
“Just find a clearing at the side of the rode and pull over. I’ll go in the woods,” I say.
“I say we just stop right here in the road. It’s only us,” she says. I don’t agree.
At least we are equipped. The pandemic taught us to always keep supplies in the car. We have paper towels, snacks, water and hand sanitizer. She continues driving.
“Right there! Pull over!” But, she misses it.
Then, abruptly, she stops the car in the middle of the road and puts it in park.
“Oh my God,” I say, dismayed at her choice not to pull off the road. I hop out with paper towel in hand. I scramble off the road into the brush and pull my pants down. The relief of the flow is welcomed. As I am finishing, I look up to see a big white Mack truck barreling toward us.
“There’s a truck coming!” I yell, pulling my pants up. I scurry to the car as the truck continues toward us. I look toward the driver’s side and see her bare ass, pants down around her knees, plop into the seat.
“Hurry,” I say. She quickly gets the car moving to the roadside.
By now the truck driver has seen us and slowed to go around our vehicle. Hearts pounding, we look at each other and burst into laughter.
“I’m not done,” she says, and gets out again, pants half off, to complete the task.
The thought of making this memory together delights us. We resume our journey through the Promised Land and agree that every girl should know the spiritual freedom of peeing in the woods rather than a dirty public bathroom. Providence abounds. You just have to recognize and accept it.
and in November 2020, in the midst of raging pandemonia Barrack Obama’s 768 page memoir A Promised Land is published.