Note: Cross Country Journeys will be a series in which I record my version of Sarah Louise Olson, Beka Olson, and Rachel Olson's journey from the land of the humid and sweaty (aka New York) to the land of the drive-in movie theatres and the awesome Zen noodle soup, Cheesecake factory-style (aka Las Vegas, among other things). Apologies for spacey recollections and random interjected stories of other journeys. Our basic mission: reach LV without having died. Our more complicated mission: Get Sarah to reach all fifty states (her last being Arkansas) by her thirtieth birthday. Our route: mostly 1-40, down South. Our time limit: Monday of last week to Friday, July 23rd, 2010. Our question: Are both goals possible to complete? Our answer. YES. This is our story.
(This is what our house looks like when it's sunny outside. Okay, not really.)
On the day we left for Las Vegas, it rained and rained and rained for about an hour, and then stopped. The rest of the day was sunshiney and beautiful, but the rain had begun just in time for Mom and I to get soaking wet making our way back to the house. "One, two, three, go!" I yelled, as we sprinted from the Saturn into the downpour. Mom and I had been running errands - namely bringing triple chocolate Ghiradellis' chocolate brownies to my friend, Hertz, at his new house in Rockeville Centre.
I had been the proud driver through the venture, but obviously my mom was not impressed. Later, sitting in my soaking wet clothes, mom opened the door to the bathroom and handed me a little toy truck, completely yellow. The conversation went as follows:
Mom - "Rachel, I don't think you've played with toy trucks enough."
Rachel - "I don't understand. What are you trying to say?"
Mom - "Honey dear, your parking leaves a lot to be desired. [It's true. It does.] Now would be a good time to practice."
Although I can drive pretty well, have crossed the country twice, and joyfully plop into the front seat of the car, while (sweetly) asking, "Are you sure you don't want to drive?" to whoever is in the passenger's seat, it has become evident to many that a. I cannot park. and b. I cannot pull out a u-turn at will. These are deficiencies which I suppose mom believes will be fixed by visualization. Hence, the truck. (By the way, I think the brownies will be immensely enjoyed).
After Beka and I hurriedly packed our clothes and bathroom supplies for the cross country trek, we went out to face the car, yellow truck in my expectant hand. A dark blue, new, sports-ish car which Sarah had happily bought just days before sat in our driveway, waiting to be taken onto the open road. It soon became evident that the journey would be a squishy one. The entire car, save the driver's seat, the shotgun seat, and a cubicle-shaped seat in the second row, was filled to the brim with the contents of Sarah's life - baskets, clothes bins, suitcases, floating poker pool table, bike helmet nix bike - which is pretty miraculous, if you consider how much Sarah has consolidated her belongings.
(The car looks a little bit like this - sort of).
"Well, mom, I love you," I said, as I got into the passenger seat and staked out my territory. Dad had left for work earlier that morning, and wished us luck. Beka sat in the seat behind me, almost completely shielded from view behind two red suitcases and a large golden comforter. Work finished, Sarah slipped into the front seat, put the keys in the ignition, and started the car. Besides a quick stop to the public library for some books-on-tape and the post office for a drop-off, we were off into the midday sun, the sounds of Sarah's mix CD, triumphful, sweet, expectant, enveloping us in the songs of adventure. Our journey has begun.
P.S. Also, although I will try not to, in certain instances, and for dramatic effect, the tense of my recollections will change, as with the last line of Part One. "Our journey has begun" sounds way better than "Our journey began." Apologies. Though only sort of.
Today, Grandpa Hoggard and I walked down the stairs and into the garage, on our way to his parked car and the shadowy cave in which it sits, on our way to the roads that would lead us to Sharon's, his favorite cafe. "No other place like it around here," Grandpa told me twice, or thrice.
The day was nice and hot, though later on it felt like the rain clouds hung heavy with expectancy. Grandpa drove about five or ten miles below the speed limit, the only one to take the "crazy" intersection at thirty-third (?) with calmness and consistency. Lately, life has felt a little bit like "Driving Ms. Daisy," which I've never watched. But it seems appropriate as Grandpa opens each door for me, waits for me to walk ahead, allows me to sit in the passenger seat in my wheel-happy body as he ambles down the street to our destination in his gray jumpsuit and his white car. Though I am not sure who is Ms. Daisy, and who is supposed to be the other guy. (which, now that I think of it, is a pretty interesting comparison)
As I sat beside him in the car this morning, at around 10:30, he remarked on the snow still on the mountains, on Timp, how it must be almost spring (yes, he does know what month it is. He is a teaser and a joker.) and I sat with my chin almost resting on the side door of the car, watching the progress of an interesting insect. One second there was nothing, and the next a moderately-sized green bug, almost like a dragonfly, had landed on the outer-side of the window.
At first, I was a little concerned that he had entered the car (I am assuming it was a he), but after the initial concern faded, I observed the pale sheen of green of his body, the two eyes that stuck out from his head, huge, round, and watchful. He looked, for some reason, like a little person squatting there, something about the placement of his legs. Almost entirely distracted by this familiar position, I barely noticed his almost ridiculously long abdomen, different shades of green, and his gossamer wings. He was beautiful.
I am not a bug person. This was weird. I found myself checking for rips in his wings, an injury that would keep him on the car window. I wondered, is he resting from a long day of facing danger, is it the shade the car allows him, does he enjoy the feeling of flying without having to make his wings move? Suddenly, it seemed like he was watching me. Self-conscious, I turned my head from the window and tried not to look at the small creature who was barely holding onto the surface as we drove.
"I'm not going to let you in, I'm not going to let you in," I thought defensively, turning my head away so he'd leave. I felt him observing, perceiving, through the reflection of the side-view mirror and it was with relief that I finally opened the door, hopped out, and walked with Grandpa to the door of Sharon's for a brunch-ish meal. When we got back, about an hour later, he was still perched on the little platform created by the mirror. When we pulled back into the garage, he had gone.
He was a beautiful bug.
