I've just gotta laugh. The clenched teeth and tight jaw mimicking a hideous grin will come later, as we get back on the road for the second time this morning. Because by then the freezing rain will have arrived. Question answered: Can we outrun the storm?

Emphatically, no.

Got up at 3am, put the coffee machine and slideables away, did our safety check, and sped off into the early morning darkness. We were in high spirits, our plan activated, with many hours stretching before us to get many miles past Oklahoma City before the ice. Hubris.

We proceded—as we must—ignorant of what lay ahead. We were one exit from Stroud when there was a small noise (what was that?) (i don't know!) under the hood. The next bigger noise brought Knowledge, the apple's cutting edge. It was the fan belt. Thus we were destined for another incident on the shoulder, a wait for a tow truck, the state police arriving to cover our back. So I've just gotta laugh.

Yes, here we are again.
And it's another occasion for it-could-have-been-so-much-worse gratitude*:
The giant tow truck was close-by, from Stroud.
Trish at *55 with the State Police said we were lucky it was Millers Towing.
The tow man knew of Jody's garage in Stroud which opened at 8am.
Following the tow truck we were at Jody's by 7:30am.
Jody was early and got to work immediately!
We went off to a satisfying breakfast and toured Stroud.
That gave me a satisfying, affectionate review of small town Oklahoma.
We returned and Jody was finishing up, having been given the correct fan belt the second time
from the parts store next door, also open.
As Andre paid, a fine rain started quietly falling.
Still, we drove away and onto the turnpike at 9:56.
We drove off it about 25 miles later—
still in control of the vehicle,
right into a Flying J,
filled up with gas and propane,
parked perfectly with doggie lawn outside our door
with the Flying J buffet behind us!

If we're fortunate, we might be able to drive away tomorrow afternoon. Or not. Now, it looks more like Wednesday. Meanwhile, though wifi is enticingly close, and we're willing to pay, we can't get on.* Out on the highway traffic is slowing but moving and sirens screech intermittently. The parking lot here is getting slicker. And I have time on my hands.

I sit at my laptop creating this—the current story of my life on the road. Insular, self-absorbed, out of touch with most of the people and places that help me recognize who I think I am. (One reason to travel?)

So I search for words, I write, I revise. I try to connect with "my audience" questioning all the while who would really want to read all this? Someone else with nothing better to do? Quite possibly, only me.

Then I smile, remembering how, days ago, writing, I hit 3 keys intending to create italics. Suddenly, my own words were coming at me from my computer in a soft female voice that feathered out some words and cut others short; the voice of a foreigner who loves sounds without quite understanding what they mean. "Gradually, it is becoming real...," she said, carefully caressing each syllable. And so on.




*We have wifi when we can get the signal, for 24 hours!

It's Saturday, January 24 and we're on the run from Fayetteville bound for Albuquerque . A huge ice storm is coming and we of the eastern broken trees understand too well what that could mean.

My brother Frank and his family travel often from their home in Albuquerque to their recently acquired farm outside Tulsa. A year ago, when I was here, they left early to begin their 12 hour drive back because they knew a big storm was approaching. That one caused major damage and power outages, rendering most of the gas pumps in a large area useless.

I'd been leaving Frank messages since Fayetteville; he called me as I waited in line at MacDonald's on the Turner Turnpike in Stroud, Oklahoma where we've stopped for the night. He tells me they're traveling back from Tulsa far ahead of us. They beat the last storm, as they will this one. Frank confirms reports of how bad this storm is expected to be. The question is, if we rise early and speed toward Oklahoma City and steadily beyond, will we evade the treacherous weather?

We'd left Jeanie and Bob after sharing the wonderful breakfast they made—suddenly it was our last time with them, cutting short our planned relaxed stay. We packed up with due urgency and hit the road. The jolt of sadness from leaving so abruptly filters through the joy of our meeting and settles in its small place where my gratitude and warm memories will soon overshadow it.

We are warm and full, with the tv, the dogs walked, hot water and a flushing toilet, a good book waiting—everything comfortable in this moment. To end a gray day, the setting sun for seconds marked the wall with gold; there was a pleasant slice of light on the horizon and cars and trucks rushed toward it. Now here we are until early morning. Knowing how tiny we are, how small the circumference of our control.

"Reunited, and it feels so good..." Endless, sincere thanks, Holleran.

The flannel lined jeans I've worn for days, with and without long underwear, have finally been deleted to the dirty clothes. Our truck stop nights are over for the next few days, while we plug in to an RV park in Fayetteville near my sister Jeanie and her partner Bob.

This after 5 days on the road from Chatham, generator on at night to ensure adequate heat until morning; pulling over to rest, or to eat, or to enjoy the luxury of our in-house toilet; walking Sam and Phuphu and letting them sniff and annoint; stopping for the night. And if we can, rapacious dining at a Flying J all-you-can-eat-buffet. Or if not, Petra. Real mashed and beef brisket. But never, never again, TA or Travel Centers of America, where it seems everything past the festive entrance is designed to cause deep depression. Even though it was named after my childhood hero, Davy Crockett, and made me think lovingly of the Davy Crockett pleated skirts Grandma B made for me and Jeanie, covered with pictures of Davy meeting up with bears and other formidable opponents.

Heroes. Our everlasting yearning for them. January 20 at a rest area I prepared lunch while Andre put up the satellite dish, and we tuned in to the inauguration. Lowering the shades to cut down the glare on the screen, we ate while we watched and listened. But for me the tears came with the first invocation, and eating became impossible. We heard the music, saw the oaths taken, heard the address, the poem, the final prayer. I remain deeply moved. Deeply grateful. I thought of Margaret and Susan watching in Shelburne Falls. Jay in California. The thousands pressed together in the cold in DC. I wondered if the occupants of the trucks parked nearby were tuned in too, or thinking about it at all. So many of us joined in this heart-deep current of feeling. At this monumental moment of arrival and departure—the long journey to, and forward. I pray that we ourselves might be heroic now, rather than demanding it all from this one man.

As we traveled through Virginia and Tennessee, we were passed by busses on the highway, parked with them at the rest stops. One stopped across from us and the passengers—all black—disembarked. Finally, I pulled back the side window and called out to one woman "are you coming back from the inauguration?" And she smiled and said "yes we are." Jubilation in the air.

Gradually, it is becoming real. We're on the road again, and adjusting. All with the usual: a configuration of problems and setbacks unique to this trip and this motor home.

Backing out of our friends' driveway around 3pm on Saturday in Colrain, Andre thunks a snowbank with the right rear of the motor home; and oops, I roll down my window later in Shelburne Falls and hear a loud noise from in front of me. That would be Andre in the Bounder; I am following him in the Rav to Aubuchon's where we plan to get propane and then depart. Doesn't take me long to notice that the exhaust pipe is dragging, percussively. Andre doesn't know yet, and innocently pulls off of Route 2, heads across the icy parking lot and swings around to the propane tank. I carefully trek to his window, gesticulating, and finally, he understands.

I know I reached my breaking point hours ago—I don't know about his.

No problem there. I get to hold up the muffler pipe while he lies jammed under the motor home on his back, wiring it up. But mercifully, a fix as simple as that is truly a fix (even now), and we head off under heavy skies to Chatham. Ten degrees outside, and inside, up front, sitting behind that monster front window—it's cold in my down coat, cold feet, cold thoughts. And my attitude—going down.

But we arrived after dark at Michael, Kate and Annabelle's (Andre's son, daughter-in-law and grandchild), got cozy with them, laughed a lot, and well-fed, headed out to bed.

The fact that we as yet had no running water did cast a pall over the idea of leaving familiar territory, but a Sunday shower in the house promised short-term relief. As did the toilet.

SUNDAY when we shopped for a hair drier to unfreeze the pipes, I picked up 2 items and declared I'd pay at one register while he paid for his things at the opposite one. But oops, the hand that went to my back pocket expecting to grab my debit/credit card pouch came up shockingly, horrendously empty. I had only the cash in my pocket between me and total dependence.

I REMEMBERED using my debit card at the bank early Saturday morning. And I am vigilant about returning the pouch to my pocket, about switching it from one pair of jeans to the next. So why this moment clutching at nothing, riding waves of anxiety? And yet, a call to the credit card companies showed no action. Lovely.

And then, memory whispered, That idea you had mid-morning the day we left, about sorting through your card pouch and leaving some behind...you sorted through receipts...you pulled out some cards...you went over to file the receipts...YES! I did this despite the voice that said this could be dangerous, you know. Of course it was, because, distracted by the receipts, I left the pouch on my laptop desk and hurried off to do this and that and more. Oh please, let this not be false memory.

So Holleran was contacted and wonderful. Promised to go up Monday to see if it was indeed on the desk and would call me as soon as he knew anything. Monday evening, in another world, shivering and walking—well, following—the frantically sniffing Sam around the motorhome at our overnight truck stop in PA, I was jarred by a ringing cell phone deep under layers of down next to my heart. Holleran. Yes! There it was! Yes, he would mail it to Jeanie's in Fayetteville!

And by that night, we had hot water, we had heat. We had a decent truck stop buffet. We had hope, and a plan to drive on Tuesday, stopping for lunch and the long-awaited inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama. Yes we can.