For a long time, only in the Florida Keys had I known residents and travelers to give directions using the mile markers. After visiting numerous times, I understood the need which was especially useful at night when the landmarks were virtually invisible.
I-20 in Georgia changed for me in late 2010 when it became my daily commute. Even when driving the portion of interstate from my parent's home in South Carolina to Atlanta over the course of many years, I only marked the exits. After Augusta and Thomson, the exits were few and far between along with any gas stations. If you forgot to get gas in Thomson, you had a very long stretch to the next station. It was and still is a desolate patch of highway broken up only by exits ten miles apart and the low bridge crossing Lake Oconee. Cell phone signal could be challenging, too.
Mile markers mean something to me from Augusta to Covington, Georgia. For over five years, my husband had a similar commute and the mile markers quickly became part of our daily conversation. "Where are you?" at the end of the work day would be answered with a number. 164 meant I had just got on the interstate and had a long way to finish my journey. 154 meant I had passed my husband's exit. 124 meant I was close to my exit and would be home shortly. The responses he would give me could be a cause of concern. "149" and "I hope I make it" meant he passed the gas station and hoped he could reach the next one in eleven miles. We also communicated other important information. "151" and "ouch" meant an accident. "147" and "cop" meant a speed trap.
We still mark the miles even though his commute takes him to Atlanta. He can mark the exits until he reaches Covington. As he enters a similar no-man's land to mine, he reverts to the mile markers with "98, 105, 112" all meaning something on his drive back home.
Hollow
Promises unfulfilled
Maybe tomorrow
The silence will be stilled
Trauma
Summers long ago
Leave behind the drama
And bury them below
Counting
Hours, days, then years
Troubles surmounting
Realizing your worst fears
(Written August 2014)
Insurance is confusing and trying to find services for
addiction that accepts insurance is complicated. Oh sure, it’s accepted but typically is
considered out-of-network which is more costly.
I educate my employees every year at open enrollment on how group
insurance works and then I explain once again when they actually have to use it
for something large and the bills start coming in.
You've asked me many times
Do you know what you're doing?
I'm unsure and hesitant.
Is this the start of something new
or the end of a beautiful mistake?
I'm directionally challenged.
Lost in a sea of emotions
Drowning in an ocean of thoughts
Loneliness overwhelms me.
My sails are battered and torn
Am I able to withstand the storm?
Questions left unanswered
My life has been tampered
But is it to the point of no return
Or have we crossed that line?
So now I ask you the same
Do you know what you're doing?
Why are you so confident?
Is this your redemption
for your past mistakes?
Why are you sure I'm the one?
Lost between your past and future
Drowning in two places in time
My lifestyle overwhelms you.
My sails are battered and torn
Am I able to withstand the storm?
Questions left unanswered
My life has been tampered
But is it to the point of no return
Or have we crossed that line?
2009
Summers spent in Maine also meant seemingly endless visits with family. As a child I dreaded the trips away from the lake cottage. If the trip was to be an overnight one to Boston, it was even worse. I didn't like to be separated from my little wooden rowboat. I loved running as fast as I could down the packed dirt road, the soles of my feet toughened from all of the barefoot days. I built tents using the clothesline, wet towels and wooden clothespins and stayed outside until the night sounds scared me into retreating to the safety of my lower bunk bed. On rainy days, I climbed up to the attic to read a book and listened to the sounds of the raindrops dancing on the rooftop while I hunkered down on one of three ancient mattresses with their mismatched chenille coverlets.
Uncle John would arrive with my cousin, Christine for a visit at some point during the summer. They lived less than an hour away in New Hampshire, but as a child, it seemed like such a far away place. Christine would stay with us for several days and then my younger sister and I would head to their farm in New Hampshire for a few days. The best part of the trip was my uncle's old pickup truck. He would wait until nightfall and line the bed of the truck with sleeping bags, pillows, blankets and favorite stuffed animals. The three of us would lie side by side and stare up at the stars in the inky sky as he drove on the highways to their farmhouse. There was a large iron bridge along the route and I would try to count the cross bars overhead. Chilly New England air rushing by, traffic zipping along and three little girls snuggled in the back chattering about life's most important things.
This was the one trip that I always looked forward to each summer...the one visit I didn't dread. To this day, I still believe that the best conversations happen in the back of an old pickup truck.
Ten years ago, I judged a book by its cover. More Quilts From The Quiltmaker’s Gift by
Joanne Larsen Line is a beautifully illustrated instructional book that
celebrates the giving nature of the quilting tradition. Each pattern in the book is a testament to
planning and requires a lot of time, effort and attention to detail. At the time, my focus was on scrap quilting
and appliqué and I didn’t have the interest in some of the more intricate
patterns offered in the book. The book
was shelved and every few years, I would rediscover it, wistfully gazing at the
glossy pages.
My grandmother was a walking piece of history. In our world of modern conveniences, it
amazes me of all the things she had seen.
Her family was the first to own a car and when I look back on what must
have been a monumental event in her life, I smile to think of her, years later,
reading books on her Kindle with ease, flipping through channels on her
satellite TV and connecting with loved ones via a laptop computer and Skype.
Every year, right after school let out for the summer, Mom and Dad would line the back of the station wagon with sleeping bags, blankets and pillows, tie down the luggage to the roof, add one gray and white cat, one excited family dog and two, still in their pajamas, sleeping kids to head for the family cottage in Maine. We would arrive in the morning, with the dog barking, huffing, puffing and whining the final ten miles until he was released to race down to the lake for his first summer swim.
Oftentimes, my cousins from New York would arrive within days. I know I shouldn’t have favorites but Steven was always my hero. Each year I would anxiously await his arrival and he would usually stay for a month. Because he lived in Long Island and I lived in New Jersey during the year, we didn’t get to see each other that much. Maine was our special place and we spent a lot of time brainstorming ideas to keep us busy during the long summer days. Most of our time was dedicated to getting his brother and my sister, Todd and Elizabeth, in trouble. This usually backfired. We also devoted a good amount of time devising ways to acquire their money. To us it seemed reasonable since all they ever spent their money on was candy. We were their dental hygiene super heroes. So, out of concern for our siblings’ pearly whites and our financial well-being, the greatest money-making scheme was born.
Steven and I spent an entire afternoon in the cellar of the cottage creating a restaurant. The summer kitchen was there on the off-chance that we had a heat wave. Using old construction paper and colored pencils, we painstakingly created multiple copies of our menu. Our enterprise was named “The Nickel and Dime” and the menus boasted items priced at five cents and ten cents. I was the chef because I could scramble eggs and make toast. My specialty was sliced hotdogs sautéed in a ketchup, mustard and brown sugar reduction. We were ready as our first customers came through the door. They were our parents who travelled from all the ways upstairs just to inform us that we could not charge for food since we did not purchase it. This was a major setback.
“I have an idea,” Steven announced as I sat dejected on a nearby chair. He emptied rusty nuts, bolts and nails from an ancient coffee can into a kitchen drawer and wrote “TIPS” across it in black magic marker. We placed the can near the door and were quick to point it out to our first real customers, Todd and Elizabeth.
Business went well for a week. Then, our cousins from Boston, Jennifer and Carolyn, arrived for a day visit. Their mother, Aunt Kathy, was the scariest person I knew. She was very strict and never smiled. Anything that was fun was too dangerous or had germs or was illegal. In hindsight, she was probably right. Carolyn and Jennifer saw our fine dining establishment and wanted their own business. Steven rented a corner of the cellar to them where they sold Styrofoam art. Todd and Elizabeth were still the only customers. Suddenly, the cellar door burst open and we saw the most terrifying sight: Aunt Kathy stood in the doorway, her hands pressed firmly against her hips. We were pretty sure she wasn’t a customer.
“If you kids don’t quiet down I’m going to give you each a good crack on your fannies,” she hollered, giving us the evil eye. The Wicked Witch of the West couldn’t have put it more clearly.
“But Aunt Kathy,” I ventured. “I already have a good crack”. The silence was broken and all of us laughed, except my aunt. She blushed and furiously retreated, slamming the door behind her. We were left alone for the remainder of the day and once again, we were open for business.
The first summer that Uncle Bob and Aunt Phyllis rented a house down the road from ours, I felt betrayed. They always stayed at our house. Just like Steven was always my cousin and Todd was always Elizabeth’s. These were the rules that were never broken. However, it soon became clear to me that having two houses in the family had its advantages.
Elizabeth, aka “Lizardbreath”, was always in Maine when her birthday rolled around in July. She never celebrated her birthday in New Jersey with her friends. Steven and I would throw a surprise birthday party for her each July and we would try to give her a great present. In the cellar of the rental house, in the creepy corner of junk, there was a pile of old wood that had been used in a previous renovation. In this cellar our greatest gift idea ever was formed: the dollhouse.
We raided the cellar of my house for a hammer, rusty hand saw, and an old mayonnaise jar filled with an eclectic assortment of nails. All of this we spirited back to the rental house via my old wooden row boat. It would have been faster to walk, but we ran the chance of discovery by my sister who had yet to master the oars of the rowboat. We decided that the water route, though ten minutes longer, was the more furtive route.
Back in the relative safety of the rental cellar, Steven carefully taped black construction paper to the windows and bolted the door. Protected from prying eyes, we began our construction project. The main structure of the dollhouse was easy to build. It had two stories with six rooms and a roof on top. It wasn’t fancy and we decorated it with sand glued to the roof and made use of small shells, pilfered plastic wrap and bits of tin foil. Once the top heavy house was completed, we began to work on the furniture. Further raids of my house produced useable scraps of wood and soon our furniture project was completed: a table, a couch and several beds. Leftover metal soda caps became bowls for the kitchen while toothpaste caps stolen from the bathrooms of both houses became cups. Our most ambitious project was the waterbed. Steven retrieved a Ziploc baggie and filled it with water. I made a lining for it using leftover material from my mother’s perpetual sewing projects. We left it overnight on the cellar floor to test its durability. The next morning, to our disappointment, the water had almost completely leaked out. So much for the company’s advertising campaign. The waterbed idea was scrapped.
The next phase of Operation Dollhouse was to find dolls to live in it. Steven and I, always ahead of our time in living green, collected cans and bottles from the side of the road and took them to the Camp Waban Country Store. Each soda can yielded five cents and each two liter bottle netted ten cents. That summer, the store had a display of mice dolls. Each doll was a small mouse dressed in fancy clothing. After careful scrutiny, we selected Miss Mouse America and Southern Belle Mouse. We raced the mile and a half back to the cellar and placed the mice inside the dollhouse. Our present was completed and just in time: the birthday party was the next day.
I met Steven early the next morning and we loaded the dollhouse into the rowboat. We covered it with towels and transported it back to my cellar, rowing carefully through the silent water.
I still don’t understand how the party could have been a surprise. It was on Elizabeth’s actual birthday and we held it every year without an exception. She was in the house the entire time and could clearly detect the scent of her favorite blueberry birthday cake floating from the oven. She was delighted, surprise or not and Steven and I eagerly waited for the moment when we could unveil our present for her. The expression on my sister’s face was worth all of our efforts. Operation Dollhouse was a success.
