Queries of the Invisible Companion

     Every summer of my mid-century childhood, the family piled into mom’s oversized Pontiac for The Trip. With dad at the wheel we sped westward from St. Louis to …. somewhere. We’d lunch at a scenic spot with picnic tables which was almost an apology for the PB&J sandwiches and lemonade packed in the red plaid Thermos and metal box kit the morning we left home.

Otherwise we’d stop only when dad wanted to scold me and my five years younger brother for fighting over some book or toy. When we needed a bathroom, dad begrudgingly pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway, and mom would open both doors on her side of the car to make a privacy screen from other families whizzing by. “Hurry up, we’re losing time,” he’d say, as if getting there – wherever there was – was the most important thing.

Every day by four o’clock he’d stop at some cheap roadside motel with a playground so we could work off our pent up energy. Dad inspected the room for cleanliness before paying in advance so we could make a quick get away the next morning. Then he’d look for a mom and pop café like his parents used to own where he could order his favorite fried liver and onions supper. Mom would insist that we eat a meal with vegetables other than pickles, lettuce and tomato. Instead of the hamburger I wanted, it was haddock with peas for me.

Despite those memories, more unpleasant than nostalgic, I still love long car trips. Especially when I’m driving alone. Maybe that’s why I eagerly volunteered to drive from Seattle to Detroit when my daughter-in-law, an unconfident driver, got a new systems design job at the Henry Ford Hospital.

In this car I couldn't always see the speedometer or gas gauge due to the angle of the sun’s glare. When I wasn’t looking for speed signs and exit ramps, some invisible but not silent companion poked my consciousness with queries like:

How often do you push through life without

all the information needed to keep you safe?

Although most of the route was very familiar, due to driving from Seattle to St. Louis often to visit my widowed mom, this time the overnight stops were completely different from my preferred locations. The usual first night's hotel in Baker City, Oregon was booked up by the time I got around to making reservations. My procrastination threw off the whole drive plan.

Staying in hazy La Grande felt weird. Taking the exit for that town was disorienting, as if driving into a Twilight Zone episode. As a Capricorn who likes the familiar and unchanging, dancing with unpredictability typically makes me nervous. Nonetheless, the unseen tripmate persisted with questions, like:

How have you NOT surrendered

to flowing in the direction life takes you?

     The second night in Tremonton, Utah was surprising. Perhaps the town was literally over the hill, but all I saw of it was a gas station, one hotel, a McDonald's, and a bowling alley. I wouldn't have noticed the latter but for the hotel clerk’s recommendation as the best place in town for supper. Hmmm, really?

Really. It was a full service restaurant with an extensive menu. My salmon was excellent. The invisible voice asked:

Are you giving the unexpected

a chance to be delightful?

I truly enjoy driving across Wyoming. It's the only state where I've consistently seen antelope consuming prairie grass, and where interstate signs warn that the highway may be closed due to high winds. The companion wondered:

Can you allow temporary turbulence to blow over

in order to focus on the rare beauty sharing space with you?

In Kansas on the fourth day I stopped at a table-service burger joint for lunch. It was about 2 pm; they weren't busy. But after fifteen minutes of being overtly ignored, I waved the menu in the air trying to get my order taken, to no avail. While it’s unlike me to be demonstrably assertive, I got up and left. I felt pissed and empowered simultaneously.

I was aware being ignored was a tiny experience of micro-aggression that people without my own white privilege encounter everyday across our country. It doesn't take much to be made to feel invisible and devalued. The companion agreed, noting:

What do we tolerate that we really shouldn't,

and what do we do about it?

     By the fifth day I’d grown worried about the tire pressure warning light randomly coming on for days. When I got it checked, the first gas station said I needed just a couple pounds more air in the front, but their gizmo for doing that was broken. The second station disagreed with the first's math, and overfilled the tires. But the light kept coming on.

By the time I reached St. Louis I went to a real tire service place. There the sympathetic mechanics put the car up on a rack to look for hidden leaks and nails. They unpacked the trunk to check out the spare. After taking it for two test drives, the Prius was pronounced as having a faulty warning light.

At each place I offered to pay for the time and effort taken, and each worker refused to accept payment. Even so, I tipped the last guy 20 bucks. When things happen in threes, the voice said what I believed: it’s time to take the hint.

Do you ask for help, and accept the kindness of strangers

when needed? Do you show enough gratitude?

After this lesson I started the drive into unfamiliar territory across Illinois into Indiana, up through Ohio, and finally into Michigan, much of which looked to me just like Missouri. Roadways all relatively flat and straight, through verdant countryside graced with lovely deciduous trees.

In Richmond, Indiana I did something else uncharacteristic of me. The breakfast room was super crowded and all the tables were occupied. Noticing an older couple looking for a place to eat their meal, I invited them to share my table. As an introvert and definitely not a morning person, I don't usually talk to other humans before noon if I can help it.

Now, I was perfectly content to keep browsing my Facebook feed, but the woman was chatty. We commiserated over enduring the Indianapolis potholes to get to the hotel, and swapped stories of living in foreign lands. It was a very pleasant start to my final day's drive across Ohio into Detroit where the car was delivered to my daughter-in-law in time to start her new job.

Flying back to Seattle the invisible companion kept asking:

How soon again will you leave your comfort zones,

hear the silent messages and open up

to the joys of the roads less traveled?