Burgen Lake Rest Stop, Alexandria, Minnesota

A quick stop at the Alexandria rest area on Route 94 in Minnesota.  9:30 EST, and the sun was setting.  The land around us was reasonably flat.  Cornfields were bordered by thick stands of trees.  Roadsides were coated with lush green grass.  Stately, three armed poles marched along beside the roads, supporting four levels of heavy duty wires, high overhead.

The rest area offered several acres of green, tree shaded lawn, overshadowed by mature shade trees.  The sweet scent of purple iris wafted to meet us as we approached the building.  Under trees and in beds around the building and along walls, were colorful, well tended flower beds.

An elderly man in a caretaker's uniform knelt by one of the beds, digging up the soil with a small trowel.  Hosta, geraniums, petunias, and impatiens were spaced along the bed with plenty of room for growth.  Behind them rose the taller iris, purple and gold, in full bloom.When exiting the building,  he greeted us with a smile.  I commented on the lovely flowers, and thanked him for providing such a restful area.

He rose carefully, and gazed ruefully at the small tool in his hand.  "I could only find this to work with; I need a shovel!"  I told him that still does a good job, just requires more of his back to  compensate.  He smiled, and moved on.

With the Trucker resting on a nearby bench, I read the plaque standing nearby.  The Red River Trading Route ran near here in the 1800's.  It described, among other things, the mud and mosquitoes that plagued those who braved the route.  And the wheels of the traders' carts were six feet high, held together by wooden nails and leather.  It is said that the squeak of those wheels could be heard for several miles.  The Trucker's wheels are definitely not such a trial to the ears, though the traders' oxen most certainly were quieter than the Truckers' horsepower!

The gardener reappeared then, asked if I have a minute, and motioned toward his office door.  The Trucker nodded permission, so I followed.  In the office, he gestured toward a bulletin board on the wall.  "There's a photo of the job last year's guy did," he told me in a barely discernible Canadian accent.  The photo showed the same flowerbed in front of the building, completely covered with orange marigolds, so full they overhung the sidewalk.  

It was a beautiful sight, but I preferred the variety of flowering plants, neatly spaced to allow the black Minnesota dirt to show between them, and told him so.  He explained the local soil packed and hardened in strong afternoon sun or in rain.  Spacing the plants required regular turning of the soil to allow water the soak to the plants' roots.  Another thing, he mentioned, was that marigolds are said to deter mosquitoes, of which the area has plenty.  Maybe those traders should have carried marigolds!

He inquired of the Trucker our destination, and wished us safe travels.  With smiles all around, we parted, he to his work, we to the Trucker's...and on the way out, took one more rapturous sniff offered by those lovely purple irises!

Hanging Out With the Fish

A lunch/supper stop in Hixton, Wisconsin.

The place with the fish.

 Good food, though the Passenger wasn't hungry enough to eat.

Known for it's ice cream.

Next time this Passenger skips the meal and just has ice cream.

 Then it's back on the road again.  

My Two Sons

It had been a week we would definitely not have chosen.  Truck troubles and costly delays in Idaho.  Issues at home we hadn't planned on. This gal was nearly at the end.

The morning was spent helping a friend with her mammoth weeding task.  Yes, mine were being ignored, but it's always more fun to do someone else's than your own.

She gave me a precious gift, allowing me to enter her world for a short morning and forget my own.

Back at home, and on the mower.  This is a time when I can talk to God.  No one else hears or sees.  The sun was shining, puffy clouds overhead.  Fields on three sides were full of aromatic drying alfalfa.  Horsepower, on large bouncy tires and on steel wheels, roared around me bringing in the harvest.  Hills were green, flowers were blooming.  The view would almost rival the Trucker's recent photos of Montana.

So why the tears?  With all the beauty and abundance around me?

"Lord, I am so tired.  I'm a sweaty, sunburned, grass stained, tear streaked mess.  My muscles ache, but all that would be a good thing, were it not for the hurt in my heart.  We have waited so long, tried so hard, and still no change.  Every time we dare hope we are crushed again.  Please Lord, show yourself once more.  Help us carry this burden."

In addition to the emotional pain, two practical things weighed on me:  despite my best efforts, a shaggy-around-the-edges lawn and property.  It needed a strong dose of weed whacking, but yours truly doesn't have a big enough jerk to start the whacker.  And a septic malfunction was backing up into the tub every time water was used in the house.

"Lord, I am inadequate for these issues.  I would like to fix them, but I can't.  I want to be the Trucker's help-meet, but I am not "meet" for these.  The Trucker has been gone for ten days.  He is coming home exhausted in body, mind, and soul.  I feel so badly hitting him with these.  Please give him just a little more strength??"  It seemed God was silent, but He already had my answer prepared, just in a different way than I expected.

Mowing completed.  Back in the house for a drink.  A car door slams.  Boots were heard in the laundry room.  Son number two?? Off work so soon?  

"Hi mom!  I went in early this morning, so I am off early and can do your weed whacking."  And while I  planted corn in the garden, he proceeded to do just that, and was gone before I could properly thank him for getting up early and doing this for me.  He didn't need a crying mama anyway.  

On to the next task, long overdue pruning of the lilac bushes.  Wrestling with obstreperous vines, being jabbed by dead sticks, I finally emerged from behind a bush to find - Son #1???  Where did you come from??

"Oh, I was working near Philadelphia today, and decided to stop in on my way home!"  We chatted over cold meadow tea, and he showed photos of his current job, a high end bathroom construction/remodel.  Wow wow.  His ability impresses me more than the snazzy bathroom.  And speaking of bathtubs...I laughingly told him of his brother giving me a "Three Bears Moment" earlier in the week, and the cause of it.

Immediately he was on his feet, striding to said bathtub.  Within a half hour, the problem was diagnosed, and repaired.  Then, like the Sneetches' Sylvester McMonkey McBean, 

The Fix-it-up-Chappie packed up, and he went.

I don't know if

he laughed as he drove, 

but this mama went on to the next thing (a shower!) with a lighter heart, even though tears - of thankfulness - were on her cheeks.  As Miss Clara prayed in War Room,

"You've done it again, Lord, You've done it again.

You're a good, good, God.  Praise you Jesus!"

Visual of a Habit

For fourteen years, a certain feline has made multiple trips from lawn barn to back porch, where the food shows up, and where there is a door that. just. might. open. to let her sneak into the house.

A closeup look at the lawn will show that every paw step is placed in the exact same print along the path every time - those soft paws have worn the grass away over the years.

Habits will do that. What habits/patterns are ingrained in me unawares, softly imprinting on my life and thinking? For good or otherwise?

The path.

Keeping the Trucker company on a rare day off.

A Three Bears Moment

It was a Sunday of many things.  Going from one event to another without down time to process is harder than it was a few years ago.  Add a few emotional jolts, and the reserve is depleted and running on fumes.  Leaving the house after a brief stop for a phone conversation, I decided not to bother locking the front door.  Why be paranoid?  And I wouldn't be home THAT late, just a little after dark.

A pleasant evening with the in-laws, standing in for the Trucker (who was stranded in Idaho with a non-functioning truck).  I arrived home with  a van load of mementos of Dad.  With illumination from just the outdoor light and the small indoor lamp left on at night I carried in the mementos, then headed down the hall.

In the bathroom, after flicking on the overhead light, I noted the closet door (which leads to the bedroom) was locked.  I never do that.  The shower curtain was pushed all the way open.  I always close it.  And a towel I didn't use was on the hook.  It and the tub were wet.

Now, who breaks into a house (or walks in, as the case may be) to take a shower?  In spite of the fact that a logical explanation must be available, I was uneasy, home alone at night.  In a house left unlocked.  If the youngest (and largest) bear cub had been in the family den, he would have used his own shower downstairs.

I phoned the Trucker.  He calmed my fears.  Suggested a text to the youngest cub.  "He called me a few hours ago, but he didn't say from where.  Maybe he was at home?"

The text was duly sent: 

"Having a 'Three Bears' moment here.  Did you stop in for a shower tonight?"

Minutes later, the response came back:

"Haha, yeah.  And I ate the 'little bowl' of casserole.  It was juuuust right!"

Oh, he is so funny.  Goldilocks he is not.  Twenty years old and still giving my heart an aerobic workout on a regular basis.

Love you son.  Glad you are in my life, and that you return my love.

Mother's Day Convoy 2016

This was written two years ago.  Little did we know the intense grief and loss that would rip apart our family just three short months later.  Little did we know that it also was indeed the GrandTrucker's last convoy.  Indeed, five short months later, he was in heaven with Jesus.  It has been a struggle to continue resting in God for our future and for our family.  But we know that He is the only one worthy of our trust and able to mend our hearts and our family.  We trust ourselves to Him, and rest in His everlasting arms.

Mother’s Day 2016

 Mother’s Day is the annual Make-A-Wish Truck Convoy in Ephrata, PA. Mother's Day 1998 fell on May 12. It was this year the Trucker was driving a truck in the convoy, with five year old DS#1 as his passenger. The Trucker's father also had a truck in the convoy. 

 After church, I left infant DS#2 in his Grandma’s care, and took my girls on some back roads to a bridge over Route 222, where we settled in to watch for the Trucker and the GrandTrucker to pass by underneath. 

After a seemingly endless line of trucks, fire engines, and emergency vehicles, blasting their horns and sirens, we saw and waved at the trucks we were looking for. By then we all had had enough of the noise and excitement.  Back in the car in blessed quietness, we returned to Grandma’s house. There we found DS#2 still as asleep as when we left him, much to Grandma’s dismay. She had wanted him to wake so she could hold and play with him. I actually would have preferred that she wake him, so he would be more likely to sleep that night!

Fast forward eighteen years to 2016. Once again, the Trucker and the GrandTrucker are both running trucks in the convoy. I am the Trucker’s passenger, GrandTrucker has a small grandson filling his passenger seat (when he sits). 

The GrandTrucker has been on the road for sixty years. Will this be his last? We don’t know, but the knowledge that this could be his last convoy makes it extra special. This year the Make-A-Wish Foundation has the preparations in place to take a shot at breaking the world record for longest truck convoy, which stands at 416 trucks. (And they did, with 590 trucks officially recorded.)

As we ride, we are looking for DS#1 and his wife, who are set to take photos of our trucks in Brownstown. DS#2, with sister DD#2 and some friends, are on the ramp between Routes 222 and 272 at Brownstown. When we get to the ramp, crowds of people line both sides of the road. I tell the big guy behind the wheel to keep watch on his side, and I will eyeball my side for our offspring. 

 At the Trucker's “There he is!” I look straight ahead and gasp. Our son is standing in the center of the ramp, by the guardrail, holding a large sign above his head that reads “MOM,” with a heart drawn around the word.

A quick glimpse and we were past. Through tears, I grabbed the air horn cord and pulled hard. Bystanders were laughing and cheering. I barely had time to wipe my eyes before we were around the corner and daughter-in-law was stepping out to snap photos, with her husband standing behind her waving both arms and cheering. We are so blessed.

Eighteen years ago I had a little boy thrilled to ride with daddy, and toddler daughter on each arm, and a newborn in Grandma’s arms. Today they are grown and independent, and supporting us with their presence and their love. A blink and the years are gone. How do we come to deserve this? What will happen in another eighteen years? Only God knows, and I am content to let that knowledge with Him.

Orange Nightmares

A cool, quiet room in Tracy, California.  A welcome space, though small as motel rooms go, to relax.  A great improvement over 18 hours in a truck, most of those parked in the California sun.

"Is this OK with you?" the Trucker asked as we pushed through the door with bags and baggage.

"It is wonderful!  Thank you!"  his Passenger replied, then added teasingly, "As long as I don't get nightmares from the orange paint on the walls!"

Next morning as we packed to depart, the Trucker inquired. "Are you planning to have nightmares today?"

Confused, I stopped and searched his face.  He grinned.

"Your shirt and the stripes on your skirt are exactly the same shade as the walls of this room."

Oh, me.