The smell of hospitals in winter,
and the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls.
On March 22, 1997, Lori and I and a few friends caravanned down to St. Louis from our hometown of Jacksonville to watch the Counting Crows in concert. The show was spectacular. Our relationship was new and exciting. Over the next several months we would travel to St. Louis several times, pretending to be adults in a big city with our newly found grown up love. Our last trip to St. Louis before college was the week before Lori left for Kentucky. I was in charge of the plans, which meant that I had no plans. I charmed 18 year old Lori* with my what-me-worry spontaneity.
The drive to St. Louis is easy. Jump on old 67. Watch out for the Woodson cop. Greenfield. What a cute town, but I'd never live here. Godfrey. Basically Alton. Alton. Did you know my Grandma went to High School here with Robert Wadlow? Cross the mighty Mississippi. I bet I could swim across this thing. Into St. Louis. My dad gets nervous driving in cities, but I don't.
All I remember about that trip is that we had a picnic lunch in the park, I bought a pair of Levi's at a thrift shop in University City that I would wear for the next decade, and I drove all the way home wishing that Lori and I were going to college in the same time zone. Besides our pending separation, not a care or concern in the world. I filled up my tank at the Pit Stop right before crossing into Alton. $.98/gallon.
On December 27, 2012 Lori and I caravan down to St. Louis from our hometown of Jacksonville to visit her father--who is suffering with cancer--in the hospital. I follow Lori down. She has Hayzel in her car and I have the older three.
Jump on old 67. Watch out for the Woodson cop. Greenfield. What a cute town, but I'd never live here. There used to be a little ice cream shop right there. Godfrey. Basically Alton. Alton. Did you know Grandma Franz went to High School here with Robert Wadlow? Cross the mighty Mississippi. Gross. Into St. Louis. Papa hates driving in cities.
I look ahead and see the back of Lori's head. A head hung high, proud and alert, yet currently weighed down by grief. I look in the rear-view mirror and see Brennan, Zoe, and Ava. This extension of everything we are and hope to be. Same road. Same travelers. But with Responsibility, Cares, and Concern.
I have no plans for this trip to St. Louis. Not because of deliberate youthful obstinance, or a function of my personality. I simply don't know what to do. I'm shocked by the situation and feel a visceral urge to somehow protect these people whom I love so dearly and deeply. These people that I am currently looking at through glass. How did I get here? What do I do? I'm still that silly 17 year old in Levi's. He can do nothing for me now.
Or maybe he can.
All this moroseness is ok for a moment, or during a quick 3 minutes at the pulpit, but I'm better at laughing. We can still do spontaneity, even when it's against our will. We can be ok, even when things are not. And with Lori, for Lori if needs be, I can't make it better, but I can make it through. I put on an old Counting Crows album. Recovering the Satellites. My favorite. I flip to my favorite track, Monkey.
Just get the world off your shoulders
and close your pretty blue eyes.
Hey monkey, what's life without an occasional surprise?
I break the silence in the car by breaking wind. Loudly. The kids all laugh. I then check in.
I love you Brennan.
Me too.
I love you Zoe.
I love you more than the world plus infinity plus pi.
I love you Ava.
Ok.
Yep, the kids are ok.
I pull up next to Lori and smile at her. She smiles, genuinely, back at me. Then gives me a look which says, "Now get back in your lane."
Yep, Lori is ok.
It's been a long December. But we'll be ok.
* Right before I left for a trip to China in October of 2006, I thought it would be fun to relive the old 'no plan' day in a city. Lori obliged, and off we went to Louisville (where I was flying out of). After 6 hours, two small hungry children, and really not a whole lot of fun to show for it, Lori revealed, "You know, this was more charming when you were 17."
