I was just thinking
Of Potholes and Him
The section of highway that follows the intersection leading past town is rough. Potholes clutter the weather-beaten pavement like the deep wrinkles of aged skin. Skillful navigation is key. Turn too sharply to avoid a deep pit and the dogs slide helplessly across the back seat, into the door. Turn too slowly and the risks could range wildly—anywhere from a bitten tongue to a sore back or even an urgent trip to the mechanic. The bumps feel painfully close to repeatedly hitting a brick wall. It's both infuriating and distracting. It’s hard to think.
But the potholes never last too long. (Suddenly hearing Storms Never Last by Jessi Colter and Waylon Jennings in my mind) Just a few minutes go by and the pavement relents slightly into normal, reasonable bumps in the road. The kind of bumps that don’t leave you questioning the fortitude of your bladder. In the relative peace that follows, I consciously decide to breathe again. An aggressive inhale and a long, slow exhale. Absolutely incredible what worn-out shocks and broken pavement can do to a person’s nervous system.
The dogs grumble softly from the back seat and the music on the radio is once again audible. One of those, familiar because it sounds like every single other song on the radio right now, sort of songs. New country music is not country music. I will fight over this.
Every time I make this drive there is a moment somewhere past the halfway point where I declare out loud that I’m making good time, but the arrival time rarely changes by more than a few minutes. It’s long, every time. The clock reads 1:12. Probably should’ve left sooner but early has never been my style.
Thoughts begin to dogpile. The new washer, the broken lawnmower, the number on the scale, the pound of hamburger thawing on the counter. I should call my mum, I should give the truck an oil change, why is everyone so obsessed with Taylor Swift?
But eventually, Him.
He hears my muttered thanks for the truck having once again survived the unacceptable asphalt. And the conversation begins. Once again, He’s been patient, waiting for the road to smooth out beneath my tires. He’s heard every word, every angry grunt and even the odd expletive, but He never left, He never has. My voice is softer now as I tell Him about it all. Words fall out like rain on an over-full birdbath, and He catches every spilled drop.
A song on the radio tries and succeeds in grabbing my attention with a familiar, catchy chorus that lives permanently etched in my memory. You and me goin’ fishin’ in the dark, lying on our backs and countin’ the stars…just timeless, that one. My singing is at truck volume, which is radically different from grocery store or public park volume. My vocal cords strain slightly under the intensity of the performance. The canine audience in the back is showing less enthusiasm for the effort than last time, but I ignore them. Critics. The song fades out, and the conversation continues.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I respond to another frost line that believes it’s a speed bump. With my perception now heightened, I notice a man in the ditch. He’s holding a garbage bag and combing for discarded beer cans. Hard to believe how many people chuck beer cans out their windows while driving on this highway. I remember my husband commenting that booze cruising is a local pastime in this area. Wondering about alcoholism rates here, I remember a woman from the thrift store yesterday—the strong, layered scent of alcohol that had crinkled my nose and sent me sidestepping several feet away. Looking back at my reaction now, I can't help but recall the countless times I’ve been shown grace.
A grinding sound announces dirt inside the door as I roll the window down. I shrug my shoulders and smile, resting my arm on the door. The thrift store fades, and the conversation continues.
Rattled back into the drive temporarily by a red Nissan Altima passing fast and close, I exhale in four letters, and the heat of irritation flushes my cheeks and chest. His hand on my shoulder, I spend another breath-held moment remembering no less than a half dozen of the one hundred and forty-three times that I’ve been saved in this life. Leaning back in the seat, guiding the wheel around a long, slow bend, I settle in for the last half.
The dizzying boredom of a four-hour drive usually creeps in at the three hours and twenty-three-minute mark, give or take. This drive was no different. He stayed with me, knowing how much I needed Him as I stared down the highway, replaying one of yesterday's phone calls and auto-piloting my way through the final stretch of road. Pulling into the shop at long last, the time on the dash confirms it took four hours and six minutes. No faster, no slower. The Eagles take their time finishing Take it Easy before I shut the truck off.
I've got the parts now; mission accomplished. Wishing we didn’t live so close to the middle of absolutely nowhere, I brace for the drive home. The sweet hour of prayer stretches onward. He’s riding shotgun, and the conversation continues.
That meat’s probably thawed by now. I should call Mum…
The Nose Will Not Be Fooled
Stepping outside a week ago felt much like being trapped inside a popping corn kernel seconds before it explodes into its new, fully cooked form. With swollen ankles and a sweat-soaked t-shirt, I stood there, in near disbelief at the humidity and heat in our northern Saskatchewan community. The mosquitoes were relentless—the things of nightmares and free-falls into insanity. Everything had even smelled hot. The patio table, the truck, the trailer—they all had that tinny, hot smell that reminded me of a dry cast-iron pan left on the wood stove too long. Looking down the road had resulted in mirage waves above the gravel, and the dogs drank a week’s worth of water in two days.
It’s incredible how fast things can change. Each time I lift my fingers from the keyboard today, I rub my hands together to bring warmth back into the skin. A cool breeze pushes its way in through the open office window and moves the thin leaves of the spider plant on the table. It’s a fresh and familiar smell, the smell of Autumn that emanates from the drying leaves of the berry bushes and fireweed, the ripening wheat in the fields and the disappearing humidity as colder temperatures approach.
Contrasting feelings well up on days like these. An inkling of mourning brushes against my soul as I emotionally prepare for the long season to come. At the same time, I willingly embrace the peaceful, comforting sensation of cool air on my skin and in my lungs. Cozy sweaters, evenings by the wood stove and hot chocolate will fill the spaces the summer left behind. I am grateful for the summer days we’ve enjoyed this year. The new friends that are turning into good friends, the activities, the accomplishments, the projects, and the growth. But, today, I can’t help but relish in the scents on the wind. Everything is still green, and yet my nose will not be fooled. My gratitude extends beyond the joys of summer and flows over bountifully into the calm and peaceful feelings that Autumn will bring.
I wonder sometimes about those places that never experience the changing of the seasons. What a joy it must be to pluck a ripe mango off of a tree in one’s own backyard each morning but, oh, how I would miss the delights of my senses on days like these.
It is with experienced confidence that I am assured of summer’s farewell party that will likely be well attended a few weeks from now. But, like George Jones in his drinking years, we likely won’t see summer take centre stage frequently from this point on. Soon, the combines will convoy down these dusty roads and return the fields to stubble. I’ll take down my summer wreath of brightly coloured flowers and replace it with the Fall wreath of oranges, yellows and reds. I’ll pull the wool socks from the back of the drawer to the front and start closing the windows at night. I’m grateful to watch the seasons change with each passing year. Even as the vegetation withers and dies away, the plants remain strong, ready for the depths of winter. They will return next year to grow stronger. Perhaps I’ll do the same. But for now, while summer is still clinging to its final thread, I think I’ll go for a drive.
I'm Still Thinking.........
