Thelma & Louise on Spring Break

One state west, in Missouri, the weather system we were traveling through had turned absolutely deadly as we blithely drove south, favorite CDs playing on the stereo system and a can of Diet Coke apiece.  More than a dozen people had died due to the storms we drove through that day in Missouri, Kentucky and southern Illinois.  But at the time, all we knew was that the windshield wipers wouldn’t lose their annoying “bumpety, bumpety, bumpety” sound every time they dragged across the glass for nine hours straight, the rental car’s steering had a definite “float” to it, especially in the wind, and the water in the drainage channels beside the two-lane road in southern Illinois seemed to be getting a wee bit high.

Oh, and the Dairy Queen sign next to a highway exit looked like it was going to be under water soon.   Raindrops broke the surface of the gleaming black pool surrounding it, lights from a nearby gas station shimmering off the rising water.  At the rate we were going, we were never going to make it to our motel in Montgomery, Alabama before three a.m.  We settled on a cheap room in Birmingham, found a double on our third try after midnight. 

Huh.  Welcome to spring break.

The first day of vacation had started off with not much more to recommend it.  Thick, cottony fog had cloaked most of the first leg of the trip from Wisconsin to Peoria, Illinois, where Kristin and I had arranged to meet to carpool for the rest of our impromptu adventure.  The fog had slowed me by about an hour, and the fact that I didn’t take five extra minutes to MapQuest the Peoria airport before leaving added another.  In my haste to get moving, I relied on the kind of blind optimism that propelled our forefathers into disasters like Custer’s Last Stand and the scenic trip through Donner Pass. 

Really, how hard could it be to find an airport in Peoria!!  For that matter, how big could Peoria really be??  Well, as it turned out, a lot bigger than I thought…and the kindness of strangers is no substitute for an actual plan.

No matter, Kristin and I were on a road trip for the history books, and we weren’t going to be deterred.  Sanity and good sense had nothing to do with it.  We were fed up with winter, pure and simple, and we were goin’ south. 

The winter had been long and ghastly in our neck of the woods, which roughly sketched would be a swath across Iowa, Minnesota, Illinois and Wisconsin.  Snowstorm after snowstorm.  School cancellation after school cancellation.  Temperatures below zero.  Days that I dutifully drove the fifty miles to work only to wish, halfway there and fishtailing on snow-covered roads that hadn’t been plowed, that I’d stayed safely home in bed. 

And the winds and the grey skies just kept coming.  It felt, deep down and for the first time that I could remember, like I would never see spring or green grass again.  Like I was living in the ice cap of the Arctic Circle, and flowers were something to be seen and admired only in catalogs, grown by happy gardeners in tropical warm, sunny places thousands of miles south.  Like I said, sanity had nothing to do with it…but by early March something in me had snapped and I became a desperate woman.  Apparently it was catchy, because we charged off our respective blocks only four days after Kristin—a friend from law school living a good six hours away in Iowa—sold her husband on the idea that she really needed a winter break too, and that he and their two daughters could spare her for a few days. 

The plan was simple—drive straight south until we hit the Gulf of Mexico, and stop at the first beach we saw.  And aside from the first day and a half of driving through steady rain, it actually worked.  About the time we got maybe sixty miles from Gulf Shores, Alabama, the skies finally parted, the sun came out, and we saw blue skies above.  And sure enough, when we finally ran out of highway, the road ended in a large paved public parking lot at the edge of a pure, white sand beach, with enormous breakers kicking up spray a few hundred feet out.  We locked the car, rolled up our pants, and happily waded in.

The trip was especially sweet when I thought back to my early years in college and realized I’d never properly been on “spring break” before.  Somehow multiple instances of herding four kids and a spouse and six pieces of luggage and a half suitcase full of Easter chocolate and bunny bags and plastic Easter grass  hidden under socks and a nightgown for a family vacation in a condo on the Georgia coast didn’t quite qualify.

The words “spring break” just had a connotation of more carefree abandon, of caution to the wind, of randomness and adventure and opportunity and the Great Unknown.  Of course, they also conjure up popular visions of “Girls Gone Wild” and drunken revelry and bikini-ready hardbodies oiled up and ready for Mai Tais and short-lived romance.  But hey, we had to start somewhere. 

There are advantages to doing some things when you’re over…thirty.  Sometimes it’s simply that you know, starting out, that your friendship is strong enough to survive a cramped, muscle-screaming drive of twelve hundred miles in two days in a compact car.  In our case, the catching up we did during the drive was half the adventure.  We’d weathered law school together, with all its exams and anxiety and pressure and competition and chocolate cravings.  Since then she and her family had moved twice, I’d gotten divorced and adjusted to all that that big change brings, and between the two of us, a full fifty percent of our children had weathered serious health crises resulting in major surgery.  Not to take anything away from the courage and grace and resilience of our kids in dealing with these horribly inequitable turns of chance…but that kind of misfortune gives two mothers a lot to talk about as the miles slide by.

Another advantage to being…over twenty-one…is that you don’t feel you’ve got to reinvent the wheel and discover everything for yourself to make the memories last.  I’d picked Gulf Shores as a destination because a clerk at the courthouse suggested off the cuff that it would be a nice place to visit, and two minutes on the internet later that night had me sold.  After arriving at the beach that first day, we struck up a conversation with a local and asked him where a good restaurant serving seafood might be found.  He pointed us up the street to a place with a full parking lot and a dolphin statue outside, and boy, was he right!

The next morning, with a full day of beach-going to make the most of, I wound up having breakfast with an elderly gentleman from Illinois who shanghaied me in the parking lot while Kristin—never a “morning person”—slept in, and directed me to the tourist welcome center I’d blindly driven past twice the night before.  Asked for the best, quietest beach around, the clerk at the welcome center pointed us to Cotton Bayou beach a few miles down the coast, her personal favorite.  Just to say we did, we drove past it by a few miles and into Florida looking for something better…and came right back.  Took her advice on a seafood restaurant near the beach for dinner too, wolfing down plate after plate of seafood appetizers, selfishly foregoing entirely the niceties of a full dinner (rolls, salad, potatos, veggies) in favor of crabmeat and shrimp from start to finish.  And after dinner, as we walked along the shore and watched the rising full moon shimmer over the shore, we never regretted not wasting our time looking for something better.

And the beach alone was worth it. Pure white “sugar sand” underfoot, the rise and fall of waves rushing in, the chorus of black-faced laughing gulls behind us, sounding like a bunch of raucous monkeys in a tree.  As I walked along the water’s edge, stopping to pick up the occasional small, perfect shell, I felt very much like the little girl I used to be, bent over and searching with single purpose for tiny shells along the edge of the Montrose Avenue beach in Chicago.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh had it exactly right in her book of heartfelt essays, “Gift from the Sea,” when she wrote that “the beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think.”  I have forgotten that many times over the years, bringing notebooks and pens to the shore as she once had, expecting to find the inspiration to write, only to find myself mesmerized by the sound of the waves and the wind, like listening to the world breathe.  Even this time, I had efficiently packed both a book and a magazine in my tote bag—“Angels and Demons” by Dan Brown and the latest Oprah magazine, you couldn’t ask for better, less demanding beach reading than that—and still found myself hypnotized by my surroundings.  The book and the magazine remained untouched as I stretched out full-length and dug my fingers into the warm, perfect sand beside me.

Instead of “accomplishing” anything, we shopped a little.  And stretched out on the shore a lot, waking long only enough to turn over and broil our other sides.  Lounging like lizards in the sun, we felt the energy of the universe permeate our frozen bone marrow and imprint our shivering psyches with memories of warmth that would have to last the rest of the winter.  With two blankets and plenty of sunblock, there was nothing that we lacked.  We lunched, and breakfasted, and otherwise snacked throughout the day on seafood dip on crackers brought in a picnic cooler that also held hummus, and cheese, and grapes, and fancy chocolates, and plenty of drinks.  Wine for her, Smirnoff Ice for me. 

While the signs posted at the edge of the beach all warned that alcoholic beverages were verboten, well, we were females over the age of thirty in bathing suits on a public beach, while college kids with better bodies in skimpier suits played Frisbee and volleyball nearby.  In other words, we were absolutely invisible.  A votre santé!  Having left our only bottle opener (my Swiss Army knife) back in the hotel room, Kristin laughingly drew on what she called her “sketchy past” and illustrated how to open a beer bottle with a house key.  Hey, it’s never too late to learn a new social skill.

Two days at the shore passed far too quickly by any measure.  We skipped a trip to a nearby outlet mall—surely a first for us—in favor of spending the last few hours on the beach.  Packed up and left straight from the shore, sand still in our shoes and the sound of the waves behind us.  The drive back was dry this time, but at two days, still far too long for anything like comfort.  We split again at the Peoria airport, with a shuffle of baggage and a quick hug before resuming our last sprints back toward reality.  In my case, reality involved serving Easter dinner for eight at my house the next day…after making a mad dash to the supermarket for something to cook. 

But I brought a piece of the shore back.  Not just in memory, but in a few handfuls of white sand and a half dozen shells in colors of grey and white and tangerine.  Encased now in a glass jar and wrapped with a ribbon the color of seafoam, a miniature version of the Gulf of Mexico sits on my desk at work, the swirls of the seashells drawing my hypnotically back to the rhythm of the shore, and reminding me daily of the value of acting on impulse once in a while.

Before I pick up another magazine or finish “Angels and Demons”…I feel like  re-reading “Gift from the Sea” once more.     

     

               

Lost and Found

We were already ten minutes late for the wedding when Judy nosed the Subaru into a dead-end lane in a strip mall parking lot. We were a hundred miles from home, and the map that I’d brought with was old enough to show interstate exchanges that no longer existed. The “good” map was still at home on a table somewhere. Clutter is my middle name.

Before us was a landscape berm with dirt and bark and shrubs nestled between two lengths of concrete curbing. On either side were parked cars lines up side by side like sardines stretching right up the curb. Across the barrier was the day’s Holy Grail, a Citgo station which we’d spied from a distance and were aiming at for help finding the ceremony. “Get me to the church on time” was no longer on our play list. The detour through the parking lot was supposed to be a short cut. I use the phrase “the best laid plans…” a lot these days.

Retreat was obviously the only option. I used to have a Subaru and once took the stupid courage that all-wheel drive gives you and drove it across one of those concrete lined medians like I was off-roading in a TV commercial. The crunching sound from the undercarriage set me straight on that really bad idea. But before Judy could put the car into reverse, she first had to put it into park so we could open the floodgates of laughter. Judy laughed until she cried. I laughed until I was gasping. If anybody wanted to leave their parking spot at that exact moment, they were just going to have to wait.

There’s something about being lost with a good friend that can make you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And we were definitely, most decidedly lost. My daughter had called that morning, taking up a half hour of what I had expected to be my “figure out where the wedding is” time before I left the house. The internet map I had hastily printed off turned out to be useless. And so we were going on my memory of what a computer screen had showed me three hours earlier, without a clue as to what run-on municipality we were in, much less where that city was in relation to Palatine, Illinois.

We eventually pulled ourselves together and started to back out. Then Judy noticed a trio of nice looking folks—two woman and a man who was wearing a beret and holding a cup of coffee—and she leaned out the window and asked if anyone knew where the church was. No, I don’t have a smart phone. And no, Judy didn’t have one either. Or a GPS unit.

HOWEVER…the nice man with the beret and the coffee did have a very smart phone, and sat down in the back seat of the Subaru while he tapped on this magical device. (Forget everything we’ve told our kids about not letting strangers into the car.) He plugged in the church address, called up a street map, handed me the phone, and watched me promptly erase the screen. I handed the phone back, and he did his magic again. This time I got my bearings, and we were off and running. Got to the church—which was not all that far away—a whole five minutes before the “I do’s.”

Then, after a brief ceremony conducted by a young priest who sounded a bit like Count Chocula, the radiant and gorgeous bride and her handsome and well-tailored groom walked beaming as a married couple down the aisle and into their future, and Judy and I took ourselves over to a nearby craft store to browse and buy before getting lost on the way to the reception. I bought half-priced candles and a wall plaque that announced that “with the right shoes I can do anything.” Except, apparently, find my way out of a paper bag.

Yes, I said that word “lost” again. This time we actually did make into the inside of a gas station to ask directions the old-fashioned way, where the consensus of the clerk behind the counter and two other customers waiting to buy lottery tickets was that we weren’t too far off track.

And so we made it to the reception, settled in, and got that lovely “found” feeling again. I had met the bride, Julia, all of about four times in her life, the first being when she was about six years old, and the last being several years ago at her big sister’s wedding. But her parents, Leo and Mary Anne, carbon date back to the first year we were all placed as incoming students at Marquette University in the same “overflow dorm,” the downtown YMCA in Milwaukee. Judy, Mary Anne and I all lived just a few doors apart on the same floor. Mary Anne was my next-door “neighbor” for two years running, and my maid of honor when I donned a frilly white long dress and put pink roses in my hair and walked down the aisle of a Gothic cathedral for my own wedding a lifetime ago. There a picture of me posing with Mary Anne and Judy and some of the other girls we met that first year in my wedding album. The marriage didn’t survive…but somehow the friendships did.

More than three decades had passed since those first days, and can be measured by the usual markers: children (we have a dozen between us), grey hair (in various stages of concealment), emergency calls in the middle of the night, and a bit of gravity-induced shape shifting. Well, okay, shape-shifting for all but Mary Anne. Judy and I are still working on forgiving her for looking identical to her eighteen-year-old self, trim and energetic and smiling and lovely. The warmth and comfort and affection and, yes, memories, that surrounded the four of us as we talked and celebrated the fact that our children were embarking on their own life adventures was magical.

We cut out of the reception before the dancing started, but not without claiming some “exit hugs” before we left. We still had two hours of driving ahead of us, and leaving the ball at midnight like Cinderella has long since lost its allure. Remarkably, we did not get significantly lost working our way back to the interstate.

But even if we had…we would still have been most definitely “found.”