It Was Like I Was Living Out The Mailman’s Creed

When we drove past the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard last night, I swear I could hear Handel’s Messiah. Never in my life have I been so happy to be home. Alive. In one piece. Still married. (Note that I wish I could say “thinner”, but alas, that is not the case). Thank you Camera Man who approached me at the park a few weeks ago when I was testing out my new camera and nearly made me wet myself (Stranger Danger is not a childhood lesson that is easily forgotten. Parents, thanks for the paranoia that has followed me into my adulthood). Camera Man (who carried a serious looking SLR) told me (in that way in which you know he thinks I should have already known this) to get a second, backup rechargeable battery. I did right before the trip, and thanks to that spare battery, I missed nary an opportunity to forever save the image of a cow taking a dump on the side of the highway. Ah memories.

But what to say about the trip? Really, there are no words. Or rather, there are too many. I experienced every single emotion a person can experience during the trip, and that was just in the first two days of driving. HA! One poor soul has already heard the detailed, blow by blow account of the drive to Illinois, via email, and so, I cannot retell it. In honesty, I cannot remember much about it. Yes, it was that traumatic. My husband is not one to tell tall tales, and even he told his family, once we arrived, “We almost died. Three times.” Weather turned freakish on us and we got caught in a blizzard in Nebraska (I know Nebraska isn’t on the way; we were going to have lunch with a friend who moved there a few years back. My husband thinks it’s on the way. I know better). So we took a detour through Colorado, which was also experiencing freakishly cold weather and ended up having to go up and down a snowy, iced-over mountain with no side rails. This was after traveling for 124 miles on a “side road” that was not paved. This was after traveling on a deserted, blizzardy, iced-over highway where nary a person, place, or thing was in sight for two hours. I took pictures, not so that I could show people what we went through so much as to give a clue as to how our dead bodies became buried under our ginormous truck at the bottom of the mountain.

Click to enlarge. This was at the base of Evil Mountain Pass in Colorado, so there is not yet that feeling of losing one’s lunch by looking to the left or the right.

Once we arrived in Belleville, Illinois, things began to go smoothly. Except for my back going out – which it did Friday just as we were driving into Missouri. I can’t tell you how important it was for DH’s family to see the best possible me, so back be damned, I got up Saturday morning, had a small nervous breakdown wherein I yelled at my husband and cried like a twelve year old girl who has a pimple on the morning of Picture Day, got over it and moved on. Driving through snow, over ice, in a veritable death dare to the universe was worth getting to see his family. For the first time in our 9 year marriage, I felt like I was leaving my brothers and sisters when we drove away. The time with them was too short.

My DH’s primal driving purpose was to have a visit with his parents. We did. On the drive back home we talked about how important it will be for us to save for a last-minute trip back to Illinois, should the need arise. That’s all I can say about that without crying.

So that’s all I can say about it right now. Oh – except to say that the first day of driving back home, we drove through what felt like 90mph winds for 6 hours, after encountering a thunder and lightening storm that had me questioning, yet again, whether or not we’d ever see home again. We made it. Now I’m decompressing. If you’re wondering why I’m home and I haven’t called you, but I apparently have made the time to blog, please don’t take it personally. I’m still walking in a fog and I am completely incapable of a nice, two-sided, pleasant conversation.