Matronly Merriment Muffled

Matronly Merriment Muffled

September 16, 2017

The last rest stop on I-94 in North Dakota. A quick one, as we had miles to go before dark, as it were. I entered the unoccupied ladies’ room, choosing a stall near the end of the line. Shortly someone else entered, footsteps stopping a few doors up from mine. Moments later, another set of footsteps, carrying a voice with them that could be heard speaking, though words were not discernible. Another stall door opened and closed. Then an audible conversation began, apparently unaware of my presence.

STALL ONE: Whatcha sayin’ out there?

STALL TWO: Oh, you heard that.

STALL ONE: Well, who ya talkin’ to? Yourself?

STALL TWO: Nope. I ain’t that desperate.

Intrigued, I listened unashamedly. Humorist Jeannie Robertson says if you listen, you will find humor in the most unexpected places. Well, I was listening, and this was unexpected.

ONE: Who, then? No one else here!

Little did she know.

TWO: I was talkin’ to my bladder.

ONE: Whatsa’ matter, ain’t it cooperating today?

TWO: Well...it’s movin’ slow, and I’m movin’ slower.

Hmmm.

ONE: And you think talking to it will help?

TWO: Most days it’s all I got to talk to.

Now I was in a fix. I had a desperate need to get outside to release the screams of laughter jammed up in my throat. But the characters in this drama had not discerned my presence, and most likely wouldn’t appreciate being acquainted with the fact at this stage.

ONE: That’s life when you get old. Good conversation is hard to come by.

OK, that’s it. I’m gone. Need to offload some humor before I can handle the next unexpected. The poor Trucker. I leave him with tears running down my cheeks, and return the same way, but for an entirely different reason. The man’s gonna get whiplash from his Passenger’s emotions.

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

September 16, 2017

I-94 West. A calm Saturday morning. The truck rolls along smoothly, guided by the Trucker’s arm draped over the wheel. The road is flat and straight, and empty. Flowing from the radio, music gently presses silence to the cab’s corners. Lost in thought, the Trucker and his Passenger sit quietly.

Outside, the landscape is barren. Amber grasses and scrubby bushes hold their ground between vast expanses of black. Power line poles are darkened, their lines dipping toward earth. Post and wire fences that parallel the highway are laid over, poles burned out, unsupported wire fallen. The flames have passed, and are gone.

And the rains have come. They always do. 

The low hanging atmosphere of ash and acrid smoke of summer has given way to a blanket of rain clouds. A continual mist hangs in the air, now light, now steady rain. Brown, rustling grasses have a golden tinge. Scrubby gray bushes show light green hope at the ends of their sharp stems.

 The gullies have standing water, and new grass poking experimental blades tentatively upward. Low areas that protect occasional trees now sport color, as the leaves are changing clothes, awaiting their release to spiral toward earth in the beauty of death after a life of purpose well lived. Occasional fields have now exploded with a riot of green, their growth competing with the calendar’s race toward winter.

The temperature stands at 38 degrees. Oh. Last trip west, two weeks ago, it showed 100. My duffle bag in the bunk, duly packed after checking long range forecasts across the country, sports t-shirts and flip flops. Never mind. Two days from now, those clothes will work. At the moment, sweats and fuzzy socks wrap me in cozily, while the truck carries us forward.

And the rains have come. They still do.

Gentle mists of tears, harsh, ripping torrents of sobs, over the blackened, empty landscape where our hopes and dreams once grew. The Trucker guides me through this as well, sheltering me in his care. I envision our Savior, His arms around us both, His hand on the Trucker’s shoulder through the storm. May these rains also grow hope at the ends of the sharp stems of accusations and assumptions.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus. You always do.

The Peterbuilt on 970

September 14, 2017

Crawling slowly up Route 970, the big green Kenworth labors under a full load, dropping back beside a Peterbilt pulling a walking floor trailer in the right lane. A gravelly voice from the Peterbilt cab grates out of the Kenworth’s CB radio.

“Thought a pretty truck like that would be way out ahead!”

The Trucker reaches for his mic.

“Not with a full load – you must be running empty!”

“Naaah, there ain’t no more room in this wagon. Weeelll, come on up in front, driver. I got all day to get up this hill, and there’s a red light at the top. Gonna be a long ride down the other side behind me.”

“OK, thank you...have a good one, driver.”

And the Peterbilt drops back, while the big green Kenworth shifts gears, growling upward, easing into the right lane, just in time for a green light and a clear ride down.

Wayside Waterworks

Wayside Waterworks

September 12, 2017

Time on the road means numerous rest stops, at a different place most every time. I wonder how many different ones I have experienced over the years. Always, there are various degrees of space, convenience, and most importantly, cleanliness. Grateful as I am for the facilities, it is always with a sense of relief that I return home to my own familiar bathroom, even if I didn’t have time to clean it before leaving.

Today’s experience could have won a prize in the dubious category of perverse plumbing. A truckstop in Ohio, which boasted a sizable, mostly empty parking lot (unusual!), large open foyer, and clean, multi-stalled restrooms. I entered, along with a trio of beautiful Indian ladies in traditional dress. The first open stall offered a wet seat, so I pivoted and entered the next, only the find the same. And in the next. After the third stall offered yet another well watered seat, I entered, and using multiple layers of tissue, thoroughly dried the seat.

The floor was also wet, which necessitated careful maneuvering. The little red radar eye on the wall behind the porcelain throne winked knowingly at me. Perching gingerly, I immediately heard the pipes under and behind me beginning to clear their throats in warning. Before I could react, a geyser of cold water fountained up. NOW I understood why each seat was wet. As I shifted position the pipes again began their ominous throat clearing. I bolted to my feet and huddled in the front corner of the stall til the deluge was over, making the back of my skirt vulnerable in the process. How to reach for the tissue to make myself dry and presentable without setting off the plumbing again? Gingerly, with a wary glare at that evil red eye on the wall.

Out at the sink, one of the lovely Indian ladies grinned at me and burst forth with a stream of chatter in her language. I did the same in mine and we understood each other perfectly. As I left the room, yet another lady entered, and I saw her begin the enter, pivot, and re-enter routine. She looked questioningly at me. I pantomimed a liquid explosion. She groaned, I gestured, we went our separate ways.

I joined the Trucker in the lobby (only once have I been able to beat him back out there – he’s a patient man). Together we exited and started across the parking lot. Seeing a story in my face, he asked to hear it (now he’s a brave man). Before I was finished, he was shouting with amusement, earning us startled looks from passing drivers crossing the lot. Oh, it was worth a wetting to hear his rich laughter roll into the afternoon air.

There has been precious little laughter in our lives recently. The harsh, barren landscape we have traveled the last year has not produced much but the steady rain of tears. And those tears, watering the soil of our lives, have not produced the growth we are praying for, as yet. Hopes are gasping for their last breath, dreams appear destined for burial, cherished loved ones remain determinedly out of reach.

It almost seems wrong to laugh, when our hearts feel like they are damaged beyond repair. And most often, laughter, like any other emotion, still ends in the now familiar expression of grief. But for one brief moment laughter bubbled to the surface. Maybe one day it will be restored, along with the other parts of our lives that are now most too painful to touch. But if not, we know Who holds the future, and we cling to His hand through the storm and rain.