Sunday, January 31, 2010. We've said thank you many times today.

The anxiety started building last night: would we be able to drive up and out of the South Gate RV Park in Fayetteville where we spent, not the planned 7, but 11 days? The new plan was to leave Sunday morning. It was time to move.

There was the question of possibly icy roads early in the day, never mind what might wait beyond Fayetteville and into Oklahoma.

Add to that the conflicting emotion of leaving Jeanie and Bob. So the last meal with them was poignant, laced with fine threads of anxiety and sadness. Bob's simple pressure-cooked sweet potatoes, which he nestled in with cabbage, red potatoes and apples, were the best I've ever eaten. After dinner, Andre picked me up and we all said good-bye. They were left with the Starbucks Coffee Ice Cream. We would drive away from Fayetteville with the only post-storm Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia left in the IGA near Jeanie's.

When we woke up this morning, the mood was tense. One piece of toast each. Ready to enact the plan. Lift the levelers, lock the refrigerator and stow everything in its place. I drove the car up to the edge of the road, ready to signal Andre when the road was empty so he could zoom up and over the curby hump into the road without having to perch midway on the ice. It was a breeze. Easy. Flooded with relief, I turned to get into the car so I could meet Andre in the assigned parking lot where we would hook up.

I don't know what my body language was saying as I gave profound thanks for any and all Help, but the woman out smoking by her motor home who saw our little roadside drama said to me as Andre triumphantly drove away, "You'll be fine. It'll all be fine. Just take it easy and go slow." Somehow that felt like a prayer for us, spoken with soothing kindness into the cold morning. I tried to wrap my thanks back around her with words and will, strangers warming each other. Then I got into the Rav and bumped over the curb myself, feeling the residue of her care as I drove toward Andre and the Bounder.

We drove into the fog on busy but dry I-540N, negotiated some crunchy surface onto 412W and headed through tiny Tontitown, passing restaurants where Jeanie, Jay and I went throughout the years of our many visits with her.

Through the fog in Siloam Springs, we recognized the Chevrolet dealership that treated us with such honor and kindness, letting us camp in their lot plugged into their electricity while they tried to solve the problem with the motor home that heckled us through 3 states. When they couldn't, they sent us to someone else, and charged us so fairly that they exist in our minds as a permanent monument to decency. Sending the manager maple syrup when we got home was a necessary homage from Andre.

As we drove the tension was fading, although it got icy just before the downhill curve leading to the Cherokee Turnpike. Then, we were on the Turnpike, sailing along the perfectly cleared, dry, nearly empty road. The pleasure and release flowed from Andre and we were in good spirits. More sincere gratitude. More thankfulness. We agreed that $8.75 for five axles was not too much to pay for these few easy miles.

Here and there little birds were flitting by the side of the road. Twice, I saw the bright red of a cardinal on the snowy shoulder. Small joy. I looked out the side window and glimpsed three deer lying under the trees where the bank by the road fell away. I breathed in their watchful peace.

The Turnpike ended and we rested and ate at the Flying J buffet. We confirmed that the RV park outside Oklahoma City could accomodate us in a few hours, and soon I-44 brought us into Tulsa, with traffic on all sides, the steady rhythm of exits for familiar streets at intervals, and soon the Arkansas River beneath us, low, with sandbars exposed. And another turnpike, this time $16.75 for our five axles. Busier, older, but still, thankfully clear.

Though the fog finally lifted, it was gray all day. We approached the exit for our destination. The GPS was set, we had a map, we had confirmed directions again on the computer. As we rounded a corner, our highway merged with another on the right. Our exit suddenly popped up and we attempted to merge right over 3 lanes in order to reach it. The drivers entering and those passing us on the right were merciless, and we missed the exit. Lost our cool.
Retrieved it in time to get off at the next exit.

Suddenly the roads were covered with icy packed snow. The GPS signaled that we had reached our destination, though we had not. Andre executed a u-turn, headed north and uphill on the icy service road where the park was supposed to be. It miraculously appeared—more gratitude. More thankfulness. It was ironically close to the Flying J truck stop where we were trapped without power for two nights and three days last year. We cheerfully said, "if only we'd known." Then, after chatting with the friendly proprietor, we crawled to our spot for the night (yes, G-12 had been plowed). But as we turned and ascended slightly and to enter it, we got stuck. Backed up. Got stuck. Backed up. Forward got stuck. After a day of surprisingly smooth after-storm travel, our arrival at safe haven for the night was aborted by the rich red Oklahoma mud.

When we called for help, the woman from the desk arrived. Another temporary resident came to help. Andre unhitched the car and moved it so that he could back out of the mud. She drove me to look at the new site. Helpful, friendly, all. He soon pulled in, moved the car behind us. We'll back out tomorrow. Yes, tonight we're at home again. Now the carbon dioxide detector is beeping, even with the window open. A new development for Andre to research. But we're warm, level, there's tv; the dogs and I have walked. What I feel now is a thankfulness that spreads over this day, and two states. As for any winter travel worries, it goes with the territory.