Tuesday Night:
Only 30 hours gone. And even now, my feelings have outdistanced the 177 miles we've traveled.

Over the years I’ve found that in times of transition, being in a supermarket can unleash strong emotions. I’m especially susceptible when someone has left me at home—alone—or when I’ve left home. In the Sixties, days after my young husband turned himself over to the U. S. Air Force before dawn on December 26, I found myself crying in front of the cottage cheese in the Ft. Worth grocery store where we’d shopped together.

It’s always been hard for me to leave home, despite the envisioned rewards ahead or my eagerness to be gone. And I love my friends, my bed, my car, my Massachusetts towns, my habits. The hot water and warm fire. Even my small corner in the kitchen whose only window is the little tv. Leaving for long involves a tumultuous whirlwind of foresight, fantasy, physical effort, emotion, anxiety, anticipation and supportive contact. Accompanied by heightened awareness of the mutual reliance among family and friends. The push-pull of known and unknown.

We left miraculously around 2pm on Monday afternoon. After an hour’s drive, we found a prime spot in the freshly plowed mall parking lot in Dalton. While Andre rested, I kept my vow to myself and took a walk—not to Walmart—but to the more distant Price Chopper. I had planned and gathered food for months from my favorite providers, had help carrying it to the motor home, and successfully found a place for it all. Now I had come to Price Chopper for milk & lettuce only. As I walked, the bitter wind drew tears from behind my trifocals and seared my legs. I fumbled my way into the store feeling dazed but self-righteous.

Warming and trying to focus, I was almost overcome with a burst of desolation near the produce, just feet from the door. Resplendent, spacious, hypnotic with color, activity and light, the store was full of shoppers. I knew that although most of us were isolated by the intense process of selection, I was also a stranger in the community.

A second and stronger wave of homesickness struck me as a convivial mother-daughter team passed me in the leafy greens. While I, unmoored, wandered past tomatoes, crackers, cheeses on sale 2 for $5, strawberries, meats and shampoos, I pictured all the shoppers arriving home in the descending darkness.

My familiar oppression moved with me through the aisles. I knew that I was casually, correctly observing myself, knew that these feelings would pass. Submerge, again. That superconsciousness of all left behind. That fear of the unknown. That struggle to stay afloat despite the reasonable or inexplicable pinpricks of emotion. That intense longing. That deep wrench at the gut that is part of the pattern of me. That ineffable feeling elicited by the beauty of brightly lit windows patterning the snow all around, or the sea of sparkling city lights beyond my spot on the highway: yes, I left. I am launched into the unknown. I am alone here, whether for moments or months or forever. Poignantly aware that others are Home.

All of this—strange suffering for a person who has for years been driven repeatedly to leave home, hop in the car, and drive away for hours. For whatever reasons.

I headed to the check-out island, distracted by my decision to respond to a bargain: 8 oz of Cabot cheese for $2.50 and wondering if I—without a Price Chopper Club Card—would qualify for that deal. I explained my predicament to the cashier, making it clear that I did not intend to pay the marked $3.89. She responded efficiently—perhaps sensing my fragile condition, perhaps to avoid further anxious pestering—by calling out a name, adding Visitor. A small woman immediately came to the register, rapidly punched in some numbers, turned and walked away. My cashier continued to ring me out, then leaned across the counter pointing to my receipt, showing me that I had been admitted to the Club, had saved on the cheese and the half-gallon of milk. I went back out into the cold, aimed for the motor home, Andre and the dogs, warmed by the kindness of that cashier on a busy night.


Epilogue

Walking back from dinner we were in good spirits. Then our bedtime preparations revealed that the hot water and dvd player weren’t working; earlier, there'd been some question about the heat. The fridge seemed okay. We settled into our cozy bed, but not for long. Though he was exhausted, Andre decided that he wanted the security of electricity, at least for heat. We could drive to his son’s and daughter-in-law’s home an hour away in Ghent, NY. He jumped out of bed, called Michael, found that he was in the city, but that Kate and granddaughter Annabelle were at home. It was a tense drive in the darkness. Finally a familiar silo silhouette appeared ahead. We passed it, turned right, and soon, left, onto their dark street. The house came into view, glittering with light. As we drove up the long driveway, the windows shone bright on the snow. The Christmas wreath was still on the door that Kate, smiling, opened to us. We were safe, embraced, and in the morning would see Annabelle, almost two. Annabelle, who smiled, reached for my hand, pulled me with her to point delicately at her new red drum set, her books, her soft gray cat. And beautiful Kate, who sent us on our way after waffles and sausage, with homemade jams and a joy of eggs from her chickens. Dozens of the most beautiful eggs I've ever seen. Large and medium-sized tan, creamy, pale green and blue-green. And tiny small ones, all delicate and perfectly formed, like Annabelle.