Traveling to Sealevel on a regular basis has given me a new perspective on driving a two-lane road, locals, speed limits and patience while driving behind a dingbatter or a ditdot. I know one of them came to stay and one of them came to visit but I am not sure which it is so I am gonna say that I was behind one of them this week. Know how I know? I followed the darn car for 30 or so miles at an average speed of 45 miles an hour. That's right! Oh, they sped up a bit on the straight parts, then slowed, then sped up to a blazing 50 miles per hour. I have already learned from the staff of the facility my husband occupies at the moment that brown cop cars are not to be feared, highway patrol are a different matter entirely so I have learned to move along with the local traffic doing a facsimile of the multiple changes of speed limits. This particular day I was in a hurry. Imagine that! I watched as the person driving the vehicle controlling my world looked from left to right enjoying the scenery, no doubt. The scenery is magnificent. But, life goes on down east and there are people working, traveling to and fro. It was not Sunday. I practiced many of my sayings, breathing techniques, que sera, sera type thinking for seconds at a time and spent the remainder of the time wishing I had a cattle catcher on the front of my vehicle which I would use to gently push them off into the swampy but not deadly shoulder of the road. When we at last came to the turn for Sealevel they proved my assumption that they were just passing through by following the road that leads to the Cedar Island Ferry as I made the right that leads to Pruett Rehab/Nursing home. They were, I am certain, relaxed as they motored on to the ferry. I was contemplating a crime or two and then muttering a prayer and then contemplating a crime or two. Split-personality caught between the grips of the demon of road rage and the angel of "how important is it?".
My other travel story involved a local. I know it did because the vehicle in front of me was marked with a business name I kinda know from traveling Arendell St. It was a van. There was traffic so I was building a case against whomever was in front of the van causing the van to tap on the brakes at frequent intervals then drive a bit then tap on the brakes. The brake lights flashed each time. I realized in a sharp turn that no car was in front of this van to necessitate the brake, drive, break pattern. Any allowances I had made for that possibility flew out the closed window of my car. The red brake lights flashing on then off began to have a sound to them resembling a scream, quiet, scream impact in my head. I have just enough obsessive compulsive in me to find a random yet predictable pattern of red, blinking brake lights excrutiating. The cells in my body began to flash, subside, flash, subside. I was trapped behind a nightmare that remained before my eyes all the way into town and most of the way to my destination before turning. By the time the van turned it did not matter anymore. I saw it as destiny, kismet, some unidentifiable karmic payback. Perhaps the van and the driver manipulating the brakes were part of a plan to divert my mind, teach me that things can indeed get worse. My next stop was my shrink's office. Thank goodness for ADHD. I forgot about the van within a quarter of a mile. I remembered it again when I wrote about the slow as cold molasses driver not from these parts.
Two lane roads and the nostalgia for the good old days. Phooey! One of my uncles drove like the devil was on his tail, passed cars when there was no possible way for us to avoid a head-on collision with an on-coming car and refused to stop for anyone to go to the bathroom until their teeth were floating in their own...well...you get the picture. He eventually died instantly in a car wreck that was not his fault. He and all those with him had been spared that fate over and over again throughout the years. I have often wondered what thoughts passed through the minds of the passengers of the on-coming cars when an apparently insane driver of a station wagon began to pass a car with no apparent concern for the lives of anyone. I wonder if they hit a warp zone or were inexplicably lifted above my uncle's car thereby avoiding the inevitable head-on collision. It goes without saying that many a good Southern Baptist reverted to their former pagan state screaming expletives as we careened by.
So, my son has asked me to drive carefully on the road to Sealevel and I have complied. I have not been calm, serene or mature about it. Most of the time circumstances conspired to force me into careful driving. I have many more times to drive that stretch of highway. The thought has come to me that leaving thirty minutes early might make a difference. Such a simple choice might allow me to drift lazily behind the tourist or ignore the brake lights flickering on the vehicle in front of me. Or I could pull over and let the flickering creature drive far ahead of me. I don't know. Maybe driving a two-lane road is a little like living close to your neighbors. Maybe it is personable, real, communal in a way that super highways have taken away in many areas. Maybe the two-lane road is the neighbor's lawnmower at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning or the sweetness of homes sitting close by the road, laundry hanging out, trees and waterways close by the side of the road. Maybe I should just get a grip, go with the flow, enjoy the pace and be happy for the humanness a two-lane road encourages.
I stopped for gas at a station in the junction in the middle of nowhere important to very few people. A fisherman gassed his old truck, his shirt unbuttoned, his belly hanging out a bit, pair of jeans and a pair of waders on as he gassed his truck. He paid me no mind. People from down east have the eerie ability to see right through you, past you in a way that makes me look down at myself to see if I am visible. It is not the first time I have encountered it. Usually the women will speak. A bit. Just throw out a hi or a "that'll be a dollar and twenty-nine cents". But I have come to find them loyal, strong, given to taking great care of what they have accepted or who they have accepted. It is difficult to ignore me once I put my mind to the task of engaging you. But I know a junk yard dog when I meet one and I give them space, honor their privacy, finish my task and move on.
Tomorrow I go to Sealevel. It will be Sunday. I will amble down that way (figuratively speaking) with no agenda other than getting Robert into a wheelchair and going out to sit by the water for a spell. When I leave I will amble back towards home with no need for speed and no bone to pick. I will go after church.
There is an old feller who sits outside the facility in his wheelchair. His wheelchair faces the highway. He has no legs. He never fails to greet me cheerfully, compliment my attire or agree that it is indeed a great day. He waves at cars coming and going. As far as I can tell he sits there all day watching the goings on around him. He snoozes in the sun, awakens as I approach, grins and we speak our parts. I am going to ask him his name next time I see him. I will tell y'all his name next time I write.
This darn PTSD gets to me at times. I am sitting at my laptop writing and I hear a car door close. My nerves tense up, my awareness goes on alert, I listen and wait for any sound that will let me off the hook. There is no reason for anyone to be coming here is what I think to myself and I am right. No one comes. Probably the neighbors. The moment passes. There was a time that noise would have sent me to find my dagger and sit in my living room quiet as a mouse for a awhile. "They" never show up. It is just that I often feel that "they" might some day. I have come a long way with letting that fear go. The moment passed in the time it took me to write this paragraph. The dagger remains in the drawer and I feel o.k. No one comes this way. The hatred I use to feel towards whomever created this place in me is gone. I accept responsibility today for my life. The dagger is not because I hate. It is because, on occasion, I fear.
Well, that is the end of the show. The curtain is coming down. I am going to stretch out on the sofa, put on a dull t.v. show and go to sleep. Yes, I do have a bed. And?
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