-
over the river. and through the woods.
to grandmother's house we go suburb. Fair Oaks.
We started in the day before Thanksgiving post-fire rainstorm.
Car packed to the gills with too many clothes and car-fun items. Too little sleep.
Family gathering of 35+ await us after spending the day on the 5.
The way to Grandmothers house was strewn with doll parts. Cactus plants. Power lines. Cars. Peeing in soggy, crowded Del Tacos. Homeless lying impossibly under rain-soaked blankets in the back of fast food restaurants somewhere south of Gilmore.
Anderson Pea Soup. Almost there. But not quite. Patience is a virtue.
Patience. Like the farm animals who still nibble for something green at the foot of scorched hills. Blackened posts man fields of barren land. Lone power lines the only sign of life past the grey smudge of a horizon.
We note the amount of drivers who brazenly talk on cell phones while driving. We count Obama stickers. Note the absence of McCain ones. We tell ourselves we can hold it for the next exit.
Over the hills. An hour passes.
And through the woods. Then another.
We pass miles wide open space planted with nothing onto other fenced off land smattered with rows of nameless produce flickering past the rain spotted windows. I play disk jockey with the "i Am Sam" soundtrack and, momentarily, You're a Good Man Charlie Brown."
People must live out there, I speculate.
I read from a library book sale copy of Jack Handy's Thoughtful Moments. Levity turns to dismay as I fail to proof read something deeply disturbing my 7 year old. Later, I console a child who sorrowfully wails that she mad about my reading "that thing Al Franken said about biting into a head." I kick myself for playing to the older crowd on this car ride. Bad mommy.
To Grandmothers...
And I get closer and closer to the exit off the 5, with any luck, is not ironically called "Greenback."
We pull off into more California suburbs. A pizza joint inexplicably has marquis advertising "Large Cowboy. 8.99"
We turn onto a lane that I always remember sounds like a condom brand. I note that I have gratitude that my PTSD can't be nearly as reactive as, say, Iraqi war veterans.
Bad mommy.
We see familiar cars parked in front of familiar ranch house tapping into the inner mantra that it will all be okay, this time. And that all marriage is built on compromise. I sincerely breathe deeply in and out, telling myself that I really do love my kids this much. The kids can't wait to see their younger cousins and I let their enthusiam wash over me.
I will wear their sweet love and joy around my shoulders like a mantle of protection.
The car crunches up to it's final parking spot behind the other cars. And I take one last breath. Finally we are there, yet.
-
over the river. and through the woods.
to grandmother's house we go suburb. Fair Oaks.
We started in the day before Thanksgiving post-fire rainstorm.
Car packed to the gills with too many clothes and car-fun items. Too little sleep.
Family gathering of 35+ await us after spending the day on the 5.
The way to Grandmothers house was strewn with doll parts. Cactus plants. Power lines. Cars. Peeing in soggy, crowded Del Tacos. Homeless lying impossibly under rain-soaked blankets in the back of fast food restaurants somewhere south of Gilmore.
Anderson Pea Soup. Almost there. But not quite. Patience is a virtue.
Patience. Like the farm animals who still nibble for something green at the foot of scorched hills. Blackened posts man fields of barren land. Lone power lines the only sign of life past the grey smudge of a horizon.
We note the amount of drivers who brazenly talk on cell phones while driving. We count Obama stickers. Note the absence of McCain ones. We tell ourselves we can hold it for the next exit.
Over the hills. An hour passes.
And through the woods. Then another.
We pass miles wide open space planted with nothing onto other fenced off land smattered with rows of nameless produce flickering past the rain spotted windows. I play disk jockey with the "i Am Sam" soundtrack and, momentarily, You're a Good Man Charlie Brown."
People must live out there, I speculate.
I read from a library book sale copy of Jack Handy's Thoughtful Moments. Levity turns to dismay as I fail to proof read something deeply disturbing my 7 year old. Later, I console a child who sorrowfully wails that she mad about my reading "that thing Al Franken said about biting into a head." I kick myself for playing to the older crowd on this car ride. Bad mommy.
To Grandmothers...
And I get closer and closer to the exit off the 5, with any luck, is not ironically called "Greenback."
We pull off into more California suburbs. A pizza joint inexplicably has marquis advertising "Large Cowboy. 8.99"
We turn onto a lane that I always remember sounds like a condom brand. I note that I have gratitude that my PTSD can't be nearly as reactive as, say, Iraqi war veterans.
Bad mommy.
We see familiar cars parked in front of familiar ranch house tapping into the inner mantra that it will all be okay, this time. And that all marriage is built on compromise. I sincerely breathe deeply in and out, telling myself that I really do love my kids this much. The kids can't wait to see their younger cousins and I let their enthusiam wash over me.
I will wear their sweet love and joy around my shoulders like a mantle of protection.
The car crunches up to it's final parking spot behind the other cars. And I take one last breath. Finally we are there, yet.
Comments
She hates when I talk about stuff from the dark side and lets me know about this when I least expect it.
I have to give them something to tell their therapist, don't I?