THE END OF THE ROAD,
THE BEGINNING OF A JOURNEY
A Widow Bit – July 5, 2009
By Mary Koch

            The thing about aging is, your body doesn’t tell you you’re overdoing it until after you’ve overdone it.

            Yes, it’s me again. Sadie, the People Dog. I’m finally having to face the fact that I’m getting, well, old. I’ll be 13 next month, which is a venerable age for a purebred English springer spaniel.

            I thought I was breezing through this old age stuff – shorter walks, longer naps – until last week when the boss lady said the magic words, “Wanna go for a ride, Sadie?” Nothing like the prospect of jumping into the car to get all systems fired up.          I scrambled into the front seat (I used to jump, but with only three legs I am somewhat less graceful, requiring an occasional boost to the rear end from the boss lady).

            Once settled, I realized this trip could mean trouble. The boss lady put the so-called “puppy’s” crate on the back seat. I say “so-called puppy” because Daphne Beech Dogwood (a mongrel lab-retriever mix) turned one year old last week, but she’s still got a puppy brain. This would be Daphne’s first road trip.

            We were headed to “The Farm,” a three-hour drive and our last visit to our friends’ farm. It will have a for-sale sign in the yard next month. We were feeling pretty sentimental, until we got to the midway rest stop.

            The boss lady had been thrilled that Daphne settled down so quietly in her crate. But when she pulled into the rest stop, she discovered that Daphne had been settling quietly in her own breakfast, which she had quietly barfed up somewhere during the first 50 miles.

            I could tell it was not the time to point out that there wouldn’t be so much barf if Daphne were fed the same paltry rations that I get. I could tell, because the boss lady was standing in this eastern Washington rest stop, with the temperature at an unrelenting 90-plus, muttering, “A hose! A hose! My kingdom for a hose!”

            She didn’t have a hose. All she had was a role of paper towels. She tied us under a picnic table – the only available shade – and cleaned up the mess, which included wiping down Daphne, one paper towel at a time.

            We made it to the farm. It was fun, but with the heat and activity, I just plain pooped out. After a couple hours, when it was time to go home, the boss lady said, “Get in the car, Sadie,” and I couldn’t. Finally, she picked me up, muttering, “This is why I lift weights every other morning,” and settled me in the front seat.

            Sunday, the boss lady took off on a long road trip – without us. I knew she felt terrible about leaving us. I gave her my most beseeching, guilt-inducing brown-eyed stare as she said goodbye. But that was just for show. I’ve had all the road trips under my collar that I need in one lifetime.

BAKER CITY, Ore. (July 7) – “You two driving a green Mustang convertible?” the woman at the LaGrande, Ore., visitors’ center asked with a teasing smile. She’s not the first to make reference to the iconic movie when we tell people about our cross-country road trip.

            We are not “Thelma and Louise,” and we are not driving a green Mustang convertible. What we are is two strong-minded women of a certain age. We won’t be driving over the rim of the Grand Canyon – or anywhere near it. We anticipate a safe ending at our destination: Biloxi, Mississippi.

            Some skeptics have suggested our real challenge will be to remain friends while spending 4,000 miles in a car together. I admit, this is probably going to be more of a journey in relationship than a sight-seeing tour.

            Not that I’m worried. Our 40-year friendship got started when, as co-workers, we decided to get together once a week after work to play piano duets. Sharing a piano bench is a lot tighter squeeze than riding in a late-model Chevy Uplander.

            We have a number of things in common, starting with our names. We were both named Mary Louise; she goes by Mary Lou or Lou. We’re both PKs – preacher’s kids; her dad was a Southern Baptist, mine a Scandinavian Lutheran. We both play the organ for our respective churches and both taught piano lessons at one stage in our lives; she loved it, I didn’t. We both enjoy martinis, though she tends to load hers up with too many olives for my taste. We both have Camp Director personalities, which could become a problem. There’s room for only one Camp Director on any road trip. Or at least just one at a time.

            Why Biloxi? Lee, Mary Lou’s husband and also a friend of 40 years, works on hurricane recovery projects and is currently assigned to Biloxi. Lee and Lou’s permanent home is in western Washington, but for now they’re living in Mississippi. Lou wanted her car down there.

            “OK,” her husband agreed, “but only if you can find someone to help you drive it down.”

            I’m that someone. I mastered the spelling of M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-in-my-I in the third grade, but I’ve never visited the state.

            On this, our first night on the road, we’re staying at the historic and gracefully aging Geiser Grand Hotel, built around 1889. We already have 10 percent of the trip behind us, having covered some 400 miles today.

            Because we don’t see each other very often, there’s been a lot of conversation. By some unspoken agreement, we don’t discuss politics or theology – one reason our friendship has lasted four decades and will survive 4,000 miles.

            As for the Camp Director thing, today’s conversations have pretty much followed this pattern:

            “Where do you want to stop?”

            “Anywhere you want.”

            “No, really. You choose.”

            “Honestly, it makes no difference, anything’s fine.”

            “Well, I don’t really care either. You decide.”

            And so on.

            That won’t last. Camp Directors cannot bury their managerial instincts forever. We’ll just see who gives in first.

OGDEN, Utah (July 8, 2009) – You cannot drive through this part of the country, at least I cannot, without contemplating the rigors faced more than a century ago by the immigrants who dreamed of “settling” this land.

            Crossing Oregon west-to-east yesterday, our path traced some of the Oregon Trail, along which so many hearts were broken. I was visited by the ghosts of brave souls who faced starvation and hardship as they bumped along in their Conestoga wagons. Today we’re in the heart of the Mormon relocation and settlement. To the East I see the incredible mountains that were conquered by those determined religious outcasts. What a legacy they created, so visible in this magnificent Salt Lake valley, with its rich and orderly green fields.

            As a counterpoint, I’m reading the manuscript of a family history, written by a friend who is Native American. From his perspective, the pioneers were invaders, irrevocably changing his family’s ordered, reasonable way of life.

            And so you drive for hundreds of miles, watching a rugged landscape unfold, marveling at the beauty and somberly considering the clash of cultures.  You wonder, is it the inevitable cost of so-called “progress”?

            There was horrible bloodshed when these cultures confronted each other. It was thought for a long time that the whites, the invaders, had won. But we whites who live in Indian country are not so smug. Natives long ago abandoned tomahawks and hired lawyers. They have since won many battles, and there are many more to be decided. Countless scenes of this drama are yet to be played. We can only hope that in the end, we all emerge on the winning side, embracing the best of all cultures.

            When we arrived at our motel tonight, Mary Lou switched on the TV. There was some perky reporter updating us on Michael Jackson’s funeral. I escaped with a book to the swimming pool.

            We modern travelers face little of the physical privations that threatened our predecessors, but I wonder about the potential for privation of soul and spirit. There is so little required of us.  All it takes is a 2-by-3 inch piece of plastic and the world is at our finger tips – food, gas, souvenirs, lodging. We’re not subjected to the elements; cars and motel are climate-controlled. We can’t even stray too far off the trail without our GPS getting us back on track.

            I drank in the soft evening air, a little weary from the artificiality of it all. I was absorbed by the mountains, whose power, enormity and grandeur vastly outstrip my limited descriptive abilities. I was distracted by a small bird as she flew back and forth. She was tending a nest, hidden in a hedge that bordered the pool. I could hear her young ones chirping for her attention. It was all I needed – a wren feeding her young – to feed my own hungry soul, to nurture my thirsting spirit.

            CORTEZ, Colo. (July 9, 2009) – When Sadie, the People Dog, wrote the July 9 piece that introduced this series, I was pretty sure it was the last thing she’d write. Sadie died peacefully this afternoon. She would have turned 13 on Aug. 11.

            It is painful to lose a dog at any time, in any way. It is especially wrenching to give the orders for euthanasia over the telephone when you and the dog are 1,500 miles apart. It was the one thing that discomforted me about making this trip. Before I left, I could see Sadie growing weaker by the day, but I was hoping she would last until I returned home, last even through her 13th birthday.

            And yet, when I said goodbye last Sunday, I was aware it could be the final goodbye. I told her what I thought she needed to hear from me. Then I entrusted her to Marlenea, who had been John’s caregiver and has now taken over canine care when I’m away.

            We discussed the fact that Sadie’s condition was fragile. Marlenea was prepared to handle that. She called last night to report that Sadie was worse; she’d made an appointment for this afternoon with the veterinarian.

            Today, as I waited to hear from the vet, we drove through Utah’s astonishing and exquisite sandstone rock formations. We’re on something of a schedule, so we did not allow ourselves the luxury of stopping to gaze and explore. I was remembering a trip with John through Bryce Canyon, where he stopped every 50 yards to take yet another photo. I found myself thinking repeatedly, I’d like to make this trip again, at a leisurely pace, with my dog.

            We had just checked into our motel when my cell phone rang. The news was worse and the decision more clear-cut than I’d anticipated. Probable cancer, fever, pneumonia and most discouraging of all, pain.

            “She doesn’t feel good,” the vet said. I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to keep a dog alive as long as it is pain-free. I’m not going to ask a dog to suffer because I cannot let go. So, between sobs, I told the vet to put Sadie to sleep.

            Marlenea stayed with Sadie through the end, and John, my stepson, buried her in an appropriate place.

            I have been preparing for Sadie’s death for the past year, but I was not ready. One never is. I adopted the puppy, Daphne, because Sadie was aging. I knew I could not live without a dog’s companionship and security. Daphne, however, will never be the writer that Sadie was. She cannot focus.

            Sadie had a lot of work to do in her lifetime, and she did it with all her heart. Though she loved The Boss and the boss-lady, she was not a one-man or one-woman dog. She lived up to her sobriquet of People Dog. She recognized that it was her job to enrich the lives of many, and that she did, eagerly and nobly.

            SANTA FE, N.M. (July 10, 2009) – Mary Lou’s “Camp Director” personality came out in full force today – to my advantage. I needed to get a little work done this morning before we could leave Cortez. She headed for the hotel patio while I toiled at my computer. We agreed we’d leave for Santa Fe at 10 a.m.

            At 9:45 she returned to our room and made a declaration in the same tone of voice I used to hear when spoke to her children and was in no mood for backtalk.

            “I have a proposal, and I want you to listen. We are only nine miles from Mesa Verde National Park, which is an archeological wonder and the site of 600 cliff dwellings, and it would be a shame for you to be this close and not see it … “

            Her sales pitch continued as if she were reading straight from the AAA guide book. I listened as I zipped my computer into its case and gathered my stuff. When she finally stopped to take a breath, I said, “Great idea. Let’s do it.”

            We did not have time to do justice to this incredible treasure from the past. I added it to the places I have mentally bookmarked, deciding I must return and spend days, not hours. But I did get a delicious sample by hiking the trail to the one of the largest of the dwellings, Spruce Tree House.

            I’ve seen photos and read about the cliff dwellings since I was a child. I never thought I’d actually visit one. I was awestruck and humbled to stand at the very edge of a kiva – the sacred circles in front of the dwellings – and imagine what life would have been like around 1200 A.D. The cooking, the basket weaving, the praying, the story-telling, the music, the laughter of children, the tight community of some 100 souls.

            Those dwellings are sacred spaces. Infinitely sacred. I’m thankful that they are available for us, the mere public, to visit.

            I was discomforted by the chatter and banter of tourists, echoing in the immense, natural alcove that shelters the dwelling. I was comforted that park rangers kept genial but careful watch. I smiled when one ranger approached a girl, about 9, who was chomping athletically on a wad of gum.

             “Please be careful with that delicious bubble gum,” the ranger gently warned. “Don’t let it fall out of your mouth onto the ground, where people might step on it.” The Spruce Tree House is maintained as pristinely as any art gallery.

            Art galleries. That’s where we’re headed today. We were late arriving in Santa Fe, but before we head on to Texas tomorrow, we will have enough time to visit at least one art gallery, along – I’m sure – with all the rest of the chattering, camera-clicking tourists.

            I look at my fellow travelers and wonder what we will leave behind for the human family to ponder 800 years hence.

            CLOVIS, New Mexico (July 11, 2009) – Today we journeyed from the sublime to the ridiculous, from the glamour of old Route 66 to the drudgery of Interstate 40, from the elegance and art of old Santa Fe to the hardscrabble flatlands of east New Mexico.

            We knew this transition lay ahead of us when we arose this morning, so we lingered in Santa Fe as long as possible. By sheer luck (thank you, Marriott Inn, for having no vacancies) we stumbled onto a gem of a motel, the El Ray Inn. The original section was built in 1936 to accommodate road travelers on the fabled Route 66. It has been painstakingly maintained and creatively expanded, all of course in the southwestern Spanish motif.

            Each room and suite is unique, individually furnished and decorated. Ours had original artwork and a tiny, secluded, shady patio. Landscaped pathways between buildings lead to hidden alcoves, benches guarded by statuary, burbling fountains and glorious flower beds.

            We ate our continental breakfast (tortilla with cheese and green chili sauce) in one of several courtyards. I didn’t want to leave, and the inn joins my list of bookmarks – places I want to revisit.

            Since we had time to do just one thing in Santa Fe, Mary Lou agreed to my choice – the Georgia O’Keefe Museum. We spent a rich two hours, amused to learn that the day before we’d driven right past her former home (not open to the public without prior arrangement) and had been looking at the exact landscapes and mountains she’d loved to paint.

            It’s always a thrill to see original paintings that you’ve seen only in books or mass-produced prints. The museum is not large, and you could spend days there. But you don’t feel cheated if you have to leave after two hours.

            We had an elegant lunch, served on a quiet terrace. Then we stretched our timetable by browsing among the Indian artists and artisans who line Santa Fe’s old town square. Jewelry and other beautifully-crafted items are displayed on blankets laid out along the sidewalk. Picturesque, even rustic, you say? Oh, yes, until you make your selection of a silver and turquoise necklace and the Indian woman who crafted it whips out her portable, internet-powered credit card machine so you can charge your purchase.

            Out of time and out of plastic, we got into the car and headed southeast. As the country flattens, buildings and vegetation disappear and even the sky seems to move away into a faded, distant blue.

            We’d hoped to make it to Texas by tonight, but Clovis, just this side of the border, was the best we could do. I kept passing up likely motels because, I objected, they were surrounded by asphalt – no green grass or trees.

            “Mary,” my companion sighed. “You forget where you are!”

            We finally settled on a Holiday Inn Express and ate our dinner – Subway sandwiches – at the tiny table in our room.

            We’re back on the road, all-American style.

            CROSS PLAIN, Texas (July12, 2009) – Texans, I believe, speak a couple of languages. When they’re out of the state or talking to non-Texans, they still drawl but they work their lips and tongues a little harder, just as adults tend to speak more clearly and plainly to small children.

            But when Texans are in Texas or talking with other Texans, the drawl is deeper than a bottomless arroyo.

            I witnessed this phenomenon when we were still in New Mexico. We chanced upon a couple of Texans in a hotel lobby. Hearing her native language being spoken, Mary Lou’s usual Northwest version of Texas drawl expanded. “Bad” becomes a two-syllable word and “wasn’t” is one syllable, without the s. The Texans exchanged their “where-y’all-froms” and a few other pleasantries.

            I might do the same if I ran into fellow travelers from Washington state, but first of all, I wouldn’t recognize them by their speech, and second, it wouldn’t have the “we’re-all-family” kind of feeling. I was born and raised in Minnesota, but I don’t consider myself a Minnesotan. Mary Lou is a legal resident of Washington, but to the core, she’s a Texan.

            “It’s home and it always will be,” she says.

            Texans have their own way of doing things. As we were barreling down the freeway at 70 mph a fellow ahead of us suddenly took a right turn. Trouble was – there was no road on which to turn. He simply drove across the grassy stretch between the freeway and frontage road – about the width of a football field – and continued down the frontage road.

            Mary Lou didn’t even blink.

            “That’s what you call a Texas turn,” she said, though it sounded like “tah-urn.”

            There’s something about a Texan’s drawl that gives the words an extra measure of sincerity. When Texans welcome you into their homes, there’s no doubt in your mind about the genuineness of their hospitality.

            We’re staying with Mary Lou’s relatives on their small (by Texan standards) West Texas ranch. The nearby crossroads town is tidy and pleasant. It’s beautiful country with rolling hills, oak forests and despite serious drought in the region, green fields. A few late-spring rainfalls have kept the fields unusually lush clear into July (“joo-lahee”).

            My evening walk along the country lane that leads to the house was a nature hike. I spotted white-tailed rabbits, quail, mourning doves. I watched a bright orange sun slip over the horizon, and listened to the cicadas.

            After a bountiful dinner, we sat at the edge of the vegetable garden, talking quietly and watching the chickens, who were running free.

            “How do you get them back in the coop?” I asked. Our host assured me they’d go on their own when it grew dark. Sure enough, they did.

            Watching the chickens return to their roost pretty much concluded the evening’s entertainment.

            “Doesn’t take much to make us happy,” our host grinned as we all headed for bed. Not much – just 60 acres or so of simple pleasures.

            ALEXANDRIA, Louisiana (July 14) – Being a Southerner, Mary Lou has a wealth of family stories and history that would give William Faulkner another lifetime’s worth of writing material. We delved deeply into one of those stories today.

            Mary Lou’s great-grandfather on her mother’s side, William Stanton, had no shortage of trauma in his life. His mother had been kidnapped by the Comanche. They released her within days, but shot her with an arrow. Her life was saved when the arrow hit a corset stave.

            William grew up to become a Confederate soldier. He was captured early in the war, then was either released or traded. He may have been captured a second time – details are murky.

            Ultimately he returned home from the war, only to get involved in another civil dispute – this one a family fight over an inheritance. Reportedly, an uncle hit William over the head with a shovel, and after that William, so the story goes, “was never quite the same.” Eventually his daughter, who became his guardian, had him committed to the North Texas Asylum for Lunatics.

            The family lost track of him until about 20 years ago, when Mary Lou – doing genealogical research – discovered that he died in the asylum in 1920 and was buried in a numbered grave.

            His anonymous end has haunted Lou for years. She brought it up this morning, while we were having breakfast just west of Dallas.

            “Take out that iPhone of yours,” she asked, “and see what you can find out about the North Texas Insane Asylum.” I learned the asylum is now the Terrell State Hospital, operated by the Texas Department of Mental Health/Mental Retardation.

             “All I have to do is press this link and you can talk with them,” I told her.

            When she hung up, there were tears in her eyes. Hospital staff knew exactly where William Stanton was buried. Not only that, a program called “Restoring Dignity: From Numbers to Names” is underway at the cemetery. Through donations, one by one – at a cost of $70 each – the numbered markers are being replaced with small stones giving the deceased’s name, date of birth if known, and date of death. William’s stone had already been upgraded through the generosity of donors who never knew him.

            “To think that people would care so much,” said Lou as she wiped her eyes.

            We headed for the hospital, which is east of Dallas. The community relations director told us a little about its history. Founded in 1885, it was pretty much a self-contained community while William lived there. The residents tended gardens, cooked, and maintained the grounds. Mary Lou was comforted to think that her great-grandfather’s years there might have been reasonably pleasant.

            She wrote out a check for a donation and we headed for the cemetery, where the bodies of 3,600 souls, including five children, are buried. We quickly found William’s headstone. Mary Lou, the first member of the family ever to visit his grave, knelt to clear away the grass that was growing around the small stone and read the simple inscription.

            Then she stood up and looked around at the neatly maintained grounds that slope down to a small pond.

            “Well,” she said. “Not such a bad place to be buried.”    

GULF PORT, Mississippi (July 15, 2009) – End of the road. Some 3,000 miles in eight days of driving (plus one day of resting), and yes, we’re still friends. It has been exactly what I anticipated  -- a journey in relationship.

            We never turned on the car radio or CD player. We filled the miles with either conversation or comfortable, mutual silence. We risked a few scary, hairpin turns by wandering into talk about religion and politics. We survived.

            The miracle of our friendship is that – while we do think and talk very differently – we agree on what is funny. We laugh at the same things, and we laugh a lot. I love Mary Lou’s laughter. It’s the basis of our friendship.

            Today’s route crossed Louisiana into Mississippi. All new country for me. I’ve been to the Gulf Coast, but not this part. Getting off the interstate, I was thrilled to see the bayous, swamps and deep pine forests.

            Back on the interstate was plentiful new construction and development, especially around cities. Here in the Bible Belt, they build two structures especially big – churches and casinos, a curious dichotomy. I noticed a brand new mall where the largest building was an enormous and beautiful megachurch. Imagine having a church, instead of department store, as the anchor for a mall.

             I know I said we were heading to Biloxi, and I thought we were. Gulf Port, where my friends are living temporarily, is the neighboring town. You can’t tell, or at least I can’t, where one begins and the other ends.

            We drove along the coast, where the hurricane damage was most severe. Mary Lou remembers visiting here as a child, when the waterfront drive was lined with antebellum-style mansions that served the very rich as vacation homes.  

            A few of them survived and have been repaired. Others have been replaced by huge and impressive residences, but they are so new they lack the elegance that comes with the patina of age. It’s been four years since Katrina, but you still come across the occasional home or building in shambles, vacant and boarded up, silent testimonials to the brutality of the storm.

            This is the height of tourism season, yet the wide sandy beaches are virtually empty. If you ever wanted a Riviera-style vacation without the crowds, this is the time and place to go.

            I’ll be flying out on Saturday.  Friday we’ll drive over to New Orleans, a city I’ve always dreamed of visiting. Now, I’m not quite sure what to expect. Mary Lou was reflecting as we drove today about the thousands of people who fled to Baton Rouge, Houston and beyond. Many never returned home, because there was nothing to return to.

            I’m ready to return home. A benefit of this trip is that it has made me more thankful than ever that there is a home to return to. It’ll be emptier, without Sadie, the People Dog, but it is home, not just a house where I live.