The Grand USA Automobile Expedition



I just got back from the great American road trip - fast food, long drives, short visits, "Are we there yet?"s, and continental breakfasts in cheap hotels. We Americans love our "great" cross-continent excursions. Our family sped through Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Oregon and California, and what I would like to know is this: what happened to the great American train journey? Why on earth did we give up on that?

 

 

I would dearly love to bring back that era - mingling with strangers from all over in the passenger car, taking a stroll to the dining car for lunch or a cocktail, sleeping in a punishing foldout bunk, stopping at historical and culturally idiosyncratic train depots on the way.

 

Something like Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney in White Christmas.

 

Of course, the engines and railway cars of those days are now best used for slooooow but scenic trips to places like the Grand Canyon. We did that once with my sister's family, visiting from Virginia. It was pleasant and leisurely, and we were entertained by a musician who played some of the great country-western classics and by actors who played outlaws and held us up...for, uh, soda and snacks. But I fantasized about some real excitement...like going more than 30mph.

 

Europe and Asia didn't give up on train travel. They just made it faster. Why don't we have bullet trains zipping through our states? The Great American West needs a few outstanding bullet trains, something to rival the almighty automobile and the cocky airlines.

 

Through many frustrations on our road trip - stops at gas station restrooms, sibling kick fights in crowded hotel beds, a five-year-old's homesickness, and an awful, overpriced meal at a lonely trucker's diner in a tiny town (but with a Starbucks) - I kept saying, "Remember, kids. This is the great American road trip!"

 

Yes, it was, and it was worth it. Really. We visited cherished relatives we very rarely see. My kids got time with their great-grandparents and discovered new cousins and got a taste of small-town living. And I saw again the landscape that shaped my parents, remembering Dad's tales as we passed familiar landmarks. We saw a dear and dearly missed friend and her family in Oregon, and my Man and I became godparents to her daughter during Mass. And on the long drive back through California to where we started from, with nothing to do but wish we were home already, we stopped in a beautiful park by the Sacramento Zoo to eat a real lunch with cheese, fruit, salad and utensils beneath huge deciduous trees. Afterward, I chased my kids who were racing leaves, squirrels and each other, and we desert rats merrily kicked through the drifts of exotic, brightly-hued leaves until Papa sternly motioned us to the car, telling us he'd been patient enough.

 

It was the great American road trip, my friends. Yessiree.

 

But I'd still like a revival of the great American railway journey of yore - only with greater speed.

 

 

P.S. That title was just so clever, wasn't it? As you see, I go out of my way not to be redundant. No need to thank me! But I really sweated coming up with that one, I can tell you...it paid off, right?

 

 

The Thanksgiving List 2012

Every year there are specific, unique things in the year that make me feel blessed and joyous at Thanksgiving, like the dance I had with my husband last holiday. This year the car accident in late September made me aware of big and small things, beside my left lung and self-repairing ribs, for which I am grateful this Thanksgiving. They are in no particular order.

Flowers from my friend Holly

Friends

Friends are beautiful people. They gather up your kids amidst confusion and anxiety, and they shelter them, feed them, distract them, and comfort them. They surround your kids with love and make them feel safe after a traumatic event. They babysit on last minute's notice.

And they throw an evening pizza party with your kids and the friends they've grown up with like cousins; everyone gets ice cream and plenty of play time outside and your kids get an excuse to be free from worry and gloom.

Flowers from my friend Ignacia

Then they come to see you in the hospital or at home, bearing gifts (or sending them with your Man) like Wise Women - magazines, toiletries, cozy socks, books, flowers, meals for the family - and you feel loved.

They listen to your heartache, and you are grateful beyond words that they accept your tears and offer their strength.


First Responders, particularly firefighters

My little girl Ella and my boy Danny were hysterical those first several minutes in our battered vehicle. When the firemen showed up my children became instantly calm. The firemen were so cheerful, so cool. They had my children speaking about their seat belts and teddy bear. I listened, comforted myself, and to me the abrupt switch was miraculous, incredible. I know the firemen helped in managing my injuries, but it's how they took care of my kids when I could not that amazes me and makes me truly, deeply thankful.

Big Bird 

Why I'm grateful for Big Bird you can find HERE, a small part to play but an important one at a fearful and lonely moment.

My brother Nate and sister Natalie's flowers

Trauma Surgeons

It's like first responders. You really don't understand what they can do, what they do in terrible circumstances, until you need them. Then you are astounded you didn't ask for an autograph while lying on that damned backboard. These people save lives. My collapsed lung was easily dealt with, but I am not fooled about what they face on any given day - trauma far worse than my own.

These skilled doctors have invested years of their lives to gain the education and experience in order to preserve health in a crucial hour. They are the Lab-coat Crusaders - the ones who get too little sleep.

And my doctors were kind, too, God bless 'em.

Bruce Springsteen

I have listened to Disc Two (saving Born to Run, I don't care for Disc One) of The Essential Bruce Springsteen several times in the past two months. For a reason I don't understand, Dancin' in The Dark especially captured my emotional turmoil post-accident...or how I wanted to feel about it. The repeat track of that song carried me through depression, and the rest of that album is great, too, for lifting you out of low spirits. Thanks, Boss.

From my Man's co-workers

While You Were Sleeping

While You Were Sleeping is a romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock and Bill Pullman. It has always probably been my favorite, but it holds a special place now. I watched it twice in that first week after I got home. Sweet, feel-good cinema...it let me relax and not think. Plus, I kinda relate to Bullock's hapless character and to the guy who got attacked at the subway and ended up in a coma. Kind of. I guess a coma is worse than my accident experience. Still, it's a movie very lean on violence and negativity and heavy on lessons in love, family and friendship. And you can't help but love Bullock in this role. Just what the doctor ordered.

My Man

When I first got home from the hospital, I was crabby. That's putting it mildly; unbalanced is probably more accurate. It got so bad one day that as I was saying grace over my afternoon meal, I added a plea that God would help me to be kind to my husband whom I was treating pretty badly. The thought had barely escaped my mind when a picture came into it. I saw my husband bending over me with softened face and red, swollen eyes as he clutched my hand, the way he looked when I first woke up from my chest tube surgery in the hospital.

Roses from my Man

I have never had a prayer answered that fast, ever. It goes to show that if you ask for the right things, God will always answer you - and promptly. The rest of that day I embraced my husband, said I love you, and told him thank you for all he did while I was in the hospital and after I returned home.

Family

My children could have been injured in our accident, and they weren't. Ella and Danny, who were in the van with me, processed everything much better than I thought they would. I am so thankful. And all of my kids helped take care of each other and of emotionally-fragile Mama when she came home.

My siblings and parents and my extended family, all far from me geographically, kept their thoughts and prayers with me. My dad and mom talked me through some things, and I am very grateful for all of the love that came my way.


And My Father was at my side in the hospital. I will always have the memory of what that felt like.

Pumpkin-Chocolate Cake

There are certain foods that go together, peanut butter and chocolate, pretzels and chocolate, nuts and chocolate, chocolate and chocolate...but pumpkin and chocolate? Oh yes, baby!

I discovered it a few years ago in a pumpkin-choco chip muffin at one of my favorite pastry places. Around the same time I found a recipe for a marbled bundt cake in a Woman's Day magazine. I was converted; this was my new favorite flavor pairing.

I am, in fact, just six years old.

The marbled pumpkin-chocolate cake is my birthday treat every year. I only have it in October usually. I used to make it myself, but my Man started taking over the ritual two years ago. I flew home from Boise that birthday after attending my beloved Grandmama's funeral.

Yeah, that's attractive. It really brings out my lazy eye.

Because my infatuation with this cake is complete, it is the thank-you gift I prepared for the trauma doctors and nurses at the hospital. They now likely have warm feelings for me...unless I forgot the sugar in which case the doctors flung their plastic forks at the wall, cursing my name, and the nurses took the cake to patients who pressed their call buttons too often.

But I digress. I'm going to give you the recipe, because it's time for Thanksgiving.

Never mind. I'm too lazy, and I want Woman's Day to take full responsibility if you don't like it, so the recipe can be found HERE. If you don't like it, though, I'm not sure we should remain friends, and I definitely won't invite you to my birthday party next year.


Note: I like to just plop in alternating spoonfuls of spiced pumpkin and chocolate batter and then swirl them like mad. My husband prefers to make neat layers of each (as above). My husband's cakes are prettier, and for some reason they taste better, too. I guess presentation does count for something.

A Bare Compliment

Have you ever been told you look young while lying nude on a backboard, wearing a neck brace and stretched out on a gurney?

No?

Well, I have.

Neener. Neener. Neener.

When you first arrive in the Emergency Department, they ask you the usual questions.

"Ma'am, what happened to your clothes?"

Haha! No, they knew my apparel had been cut off in the ambulance, or they guessed I was headed to the grocery store naked that Friday morning. Either way, it was irrelevant.

So first they asked, "What's you name?"

"Hillary...."

"How old are you, Hillary?"

"33. No, 32. I have a birthday...coming up...this week..."

And that's when I heard it, as from an angelic male voice drawing me toward a bright light down a rose-scented tunnel.

"Wow, she looks young!"

Right then and there I wanted to spring off that backboard with a cry of, "I'm cured! Peace, ya'll!", and take myself off for a victory jog around the hospital corridors, but

a. I had multiple rib fractures which wouldn't allow me to roll off the table, much less spring from it

b. I figured once that doctor or nurse got a flash of my full, jiggling thighs and cellulite, he might not think I looked so young anymore, and

c. I was pretty sure I could be arrested for indecent exposure, even while in the hospital. Of course, my defense would have been perfect: temporary insanity brought on by a crazy good compliment after a traumatic injury.

But failing this I lay there with an asinine smile on my face, waiting for someone to tell me I also had a brilliant mind and a winning personality.

Instead they took me for a Cat-Scan.

Later my euphoria was dampened by a nurse saying she thought I was older and then gloating over her own youthful appearance, overhearing a couple of nurses comment to each other that I smelled worse than expected (I couldn't shower for six days, people!), and by my doctor asking me how much I weighed and then hazarding a guess - 70kg.

"I don't know how much that is," I told him. (There goes the brilliant mind theory.)

I'm surprised he didn't cry, "Damn!", claim he forgot something in another room, and shuttle out of there never to be seen again. Instead, he bravely said, "140."

"Last time I checked, I was 134," I responded. I magnanimously added, "But you could be right; I haven't weighed myself in a long time."

After all, 140 isn't bad at all, and I hadn't weighed myself in a while.

And, obviously, I'm not one for being vain.

I'm Thankful for Big Bird

This morning I was mesmerized - by Sesame Street. Listen, friends, PBS is quality programming; it's far better than letting your kids watch the rot on other networks where most of the "kids" shows are vulgar, semi-violent, too mature and bizarre.

Anyway, give me a moment to climb off this beloved soapbox...ah, there I am. Soooo, I was talking Big Bird.

This morning on Sesame Street, Big Bird's friends, Gordon, Gabby, Elmo, Maria, Telly, etc., were helping Big Bird rebuild his nest after a hurricane, and I was touched by the gentle and expert way in which this scary topic was being addressed. I got misty-eyed, because I was sure that this show, with its abundance of love, friendship and determination surrounding the fear and uncertainty, could really help children cope with the sometimes humongous curve balls that life can throw at you.

Hey, Big Bird helped me recebtly when I was feeling scared, and I'm an adult.

When I woke up suddenly my first night in the hospital in September, I saw the motorcycle that t-boned our van speeding at me again. It replayed in the darkness with sound effects provided by some loud banging in the Surgical Care corridor. I had to silence the ghost, so I turned on the TV. As I flipped the channels through cheesy and violent programming at 2 am, I finally landed on Sesame Street. I sighed and settled in like a child with an old lovey. I felt safe again.

I saw some commercials a few years ago where adults talked about how Sesame Street changed their lives as children, took them out of their dismal circumstances to a happier place, helped them learn English when their family first immigrated to the US, or even set them on the right path to realize their dream job. I believe them.

I feel guilty that my kids watch too much TV at times, especially lately as I've recuperated, but I do not feel guilty that they watch PBS. Mr. Rogers, Big Bird, Ruff Ruffman, these are giants - lovable, gentle, teaching giants - in the world of technology. I hope we can always keep our kids grounded in their educational and compassionate programming.

My Salute to Firemen

No, this isn't going to be that kind of post. Sorry, ladies.

This is about how my respect for first responders has grown. It's one of the things I thought about first when I saw the pictures after Hurricane Sandy of a whole region of people traumatized by nature's fury. I listened to the journalists talking about first responders fighting impossible conditions to do their job, leaving their own devastated homes behind, and thought again how society is fortunate people freely choose this taxing profession, investing their time and talents to learn how to save others' lives and property. Their jobs are not easy, but they have great potential for good even in the smallest everyday rescues.

Several years ago my good friend accidentally locked her keys and her baby in the car and in a panic had to call 911. The firemen came and calmly got her precious baby out of that automobile, and then they felt the child's forehead.

"It's OK, ma'am," one of them said to my friend as he handed her daughter over. "She's not even hot yet."

It was over in a manner of minutes, but as the firemen left my friend gazed after them thinking, My heroes!

And that's what happens, you develop a hero-worshiping complex once you've experienced first-hand what these steady souls are capable of. You see a group of them shopping in the supermarket and you nudge your kids, so you can all stare at them sidelong and knock into the soda display with your shopping cart. You want to say, "thank you for your service", but that doesn't seem quite right, and you don't expect they'd accept your kids' Halloween candy as a token of gratitude, either (though you wish they would).

It's a selfish thing, but my own admiration for these heroes-in-trade increased a thousandfold when my family had need of their skill. Forgive me, I'm going to use those words again. After the accident I heard them comfort and calm my children, and to me it was miraculous how quickly my children went from emotional anarchy to talking about their teddy bear and seat belts. The firemen's cheerful tones calmed me as well, and my trust was complete when they told me, "Ma'am, we're going to remove your children from the car." I never saw their faces; all I remember is voices, cheerful, kind, capable voices.

Since then I've run into a couple of women who told me their husbands are firemen, and I went all gushy, asking them to please thank their spouses for what they do, telling them what a great thing they did for my terrified kids.

I can't ever repay them for what they gave my family in our time of need, and that's not the point. All I can do is thank them and then thank God that they do what they do so exceptionally well.

Oh, where? Oh, wherefore art thou?

My writing muse must have left the premises in the past two weeks; I can't find her. I've been trying to get her on the phone, lure her out of the crevices in my mind, sniff her out in the usual inspiration haunts or at least find an overlooked message promising a quick return from vacation. But she's gone. She's not there to give me a kick in the pants in the evening when my mind goes numb watching bubble gum television. There are no more valid excuse notes reading, Hillary can't clean, cook or declutter right now, because she needs to write. There are no more Aha! moments when I'm ruminating while trying to get my little son to take a nap so that I can write, dammit.

Maybe she decided I was too risky an investment when I went through that depression after the accident. Maybe she decided to leave the day of the accident, all shook up, and she only stuck around to let me have a couple good posts out of pity before sneaking off, giving me a farewell slap on the fractured ribs as I slept, and floating away to some other writer who can't possibly need her as badly as I do.

I've tried giving myself a good shake down, but my thoughts are lying about like miscellanea from trouser pockets - Hurricane Sandy, heroes, pumpkin-chocolate, Big Bird, plastic utensils - and they just don't make sense. They won't form an orderly line, and I'm left calling, "Next!" interminably.

I'm a lonely writer. I need my muse. If you happen to see one out somewhere, in some Starbucks or big city park, and she looks like she might be mine or she might be bored, please pass along this message for me:

Help! Come back quick! What have you done!? - Sincerely, Hillary

Until I can coax her back you might enjoy:

Stroller Pains

Hint of Awful

The Longest Week of My Life (guest post by Dad)

Imagine St. Nick (Warning: major spoiler!)