Month: September 2023

My loneliest time in traveling is when everyone I love is sleeping at home and I am awake and by myself in an airport. I feel as if I have been forgotten, and if I wasn’t careful, I could end up on the wrong flight and find myself in Istanbul or some other faraway place when the doors opened on an unknown world.  

I left my favorite dress in Budapest because I couldn’t imagine wearing it again. The memory of it swooshing around my ankles as I watched couples waltz in circles in a city park while the sun set over the Danube would make my heart ache for not being there again. But just as the old adage is correct—you can’t go home again—it is also true a lifetime happens once, and you can’t get it back to do a do-over.

I have struggled with my writing while I have been on my trip. The heat was so oppressive, and our schedule had this start and stop shuffle to it like I couldn’t find the notes to the music I usually hear or feel the drumming in my chest that whispers, “Lesley, write.” I also couldn’t pin myself down. Who was I? I was no longer the mother responsible for the child, I was, at times, the travel companion whose skills tended more in the direction of asking for help instead of figuring it out through observation. SarahKate is latter if you didn’t know.

I think the dissonance happened because of the span of time that stretches, overlaps, and extends beyond in a parent child relationship. Think of it as a series of roads going in all directions. Where the roads intersect, your life joins with someone else’s, and you add a new name to your identity. I’ve always been a daughter. Throughout my life, I happened upon new roads and added the titles of sister, mother, wife, friend. Sometimes the roads are just crossings, other times they parallel one another, and even other times they merge for a long time, seamless, the two signposts becoming one before finally separating, because roads are by nature and design meant to be singular.

I’ve known SarahKate since before she was born. Before her birth I had a childhood, friends, lovers, an unhappy first marriage, and another child all tied together like a knitted wool hat that prepared me for her, my child. I knew from the time I was young that I would have a redhaired daughter. I can’t tell you how, but I knew it as firmly as I knew my middle name, my favorite book, or the qualities in a best friend. SarahKate has known me for as long as she has had memories. She was not born with the knowledge that she would someday have a mother with red hair. It just fell from around my face and brushed her newborn cheek from the moment she opened her eyes. I was 26, and it was the flaming, bright, startling red hair that she now sees in the mirror each day.

We had only a few scrapes on the trip—a incorrect train platform, a couple of misunderstood comments—but it was SarahKate who brought me to a place of acceptance that no one else has been able to on an issue I am facing as thick and impenetrable as the thorny thicket around Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

My parents helped me raise my kids after my divorce when my kids were tiny. I moved to another state, got a job working in a downtown office building, bought a house by myself, and traveled around the country delivering workshops. While all of that was happening to me, my parents were there for SarahKate and her brother—fixing dinner, lighting candles on the table, taking them to sports’ practices, tucking them in at night. They (except for the respite time they had in Arizona in the winter) did it all. It allowed me to work on my career which gave me the experience I needed to get my job in Olympia where I ultimately met Paul and knew that I was home for good.

SarahKate can tell me things about my parents, particularly my mother, that I didn’t know because I was gone so much during that time in her life. My mother brushed her hair, took her shopping, made cookies with her, watched television with her, walked the dog with her, and in general was always a buzzing presence that made everything else happen. My mother was the glue for them just as she was the glue for me and my brother when I was growing up.

Out of the deepest respect for my mother and her privacy, I won’t go into the particulars of the challenges she is facing as she grows older or how helpless I feel as her road diverges and leaves the one we shared. Many senior citizens experience breaking bones, becoming a widow, losing a pet, watching friends pass away, staring at a family vacation spot in the rearview mirror, and feeling a quiet despair about the days that seem endless—all markers on a road they alone know. It is her journey, her destination. I can only hope to wrap it in some semblance of dignity, so she doesn’t awaken one day to find the doors have opened at Istanbul or some other faraway place.

If do-overs could happen, I would find my mother’s Budapest dress for her to wear again. My father’s arms would be the ones around her impossibly tiny waist, his cheek would be against hers with his Aqua Velvet aftershave mixing with her Chanel No. 5 perfume as they swayed to Moon River, the song from the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the song they owned together. Her brilliant, stunning red curls would swing in the light as they danced in circles.

Moon river, wider than a mile

I’m crossing you in style some day

Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker

Wherever you’re goin’, I’m going your way.

   –Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer, 1961

When your daughter says, “Do you want to go on another trip?” You say YES. You always say yes, I told my husband Paul, because the moment may not come again. Life has the habit of sometimes getting in the way. Last year SarahKate and I traveled to Iceland together, and this year it is three countries—Switzerland, Hungary, and Austria. Nine months ago, when we did the long-distance pinkie-swear promise that neither of us would back out, I remember thinking what a nice calm trip it would be…central Europe. How much trouble could we get into? The real question was how could we manage our different styles? One thing I know for sure is when an American redhaired mother daughter duo come to town it can be a hot mess.

My daughter is all logic, and I am…almost entirely imagination. Yet, we are each successful at solving problems. I can feel her reaction to that statement before she even reads this essay. SarahKate was born a teenager. When she is annoyed—or better yet, aggravated—she drops her arms to her sides, rolls her eyes heavenward, and drags herself across the floor like a juvenile gorilla whose character has just been besmirched. Then she’ll pause…and remember that I do indeed get us out of scrapes.

So, let’s cover a few problems we encountered on this trip. You tell me: is using logic or imagination better for solving problems?

We met in the Zurich airport having arrived from different parts of the world. I had fluttered over to Europe by taking the short cut—the North pole—in less than twelve hours. She had spent twelve hours in New York’s JFK before she even boarded her transatlantic flight.

“I have the keys to the rental car, a nut thing for your low blood sugar, and you better hope your bag made it.” She stopped and put her hand on her hips. “Let’s go.”

I stared at my little girl. Her long, curly red tresses were gone. Her hair was cut so short I could see the skin of her scalp peaking out from the precise lines made by skillful shears. There was just one beautiful curl left in the front. I clamped my lips together.

“I got tired of being hot all the time,” she countered with a frown.

Well, she always was a sweaty kid, I thought.    

I trailed along in her wake as we waited for my bag to show up. SarahKate has been a social worker for the last ten years, and it has worn on her. It’s been my experience that sometimes people’s edges soften over time. SarahKate’s have sharped. Not in a bad way—instead, like a chef’s sharp knife. She’s turning thirty in a few days, and that sharpening is purposeful. A career change is in the works. SarahKate is not making a slight turn. She is working on an Master’s Degree in Emergency Management, taking nursing courses and even working on a ship captain’s license. I am just glad to see her.

My bag in tow, we reached the ladies room and encountered our first problem. The airport had installed a coin machine and a turnstile at the entrance of the restroom.

“Try a quarter,” I twirled my suitcase in a circle.

“It doesn’t work.” Her head was deep in her purse.

“Try a euro. I bet they aren’t picky.” I slowed the suitcase when I saw her eyebrows touch each other in a scowl.   

“I only have one franc and we both have to go to the bathroom.” She sighed. “Let’s go get some change.”

“Nah, we can do this.” I mentally measured the distance between the turnstile bars. I positioned her against the first bar and slid in behind her. “Put the franc in and we’ll both go through at the same time.” It worked just like a greased pig going down a chute.

“What about your bag, Mom?” It sat on the other side of the turnstile. I imagined myself crawling back under the bars. It might work.  Imagination versus logic. I’m generous. Put a point in each column.

During SarahKate’s childhood, I was the undisputed boss of the family. Ask anyone. They will shudder, drop their heads and whisper, ‘It’s true.’ But, I have gladly given up my title and I’m now grateful SarahKate takes the lead on the things I don’t want to do—drive, navigate, keep track of time, and remember to bring the tickets. That leaves me responsible for shopping, drinking and eating. It’s the perfect partnership.

“Hmm…Fast route or safe route?” she asked as we sat in the idling car. Putting our favorite Van Morrison on the playlist, we took off for the journey between Halisberg and Meiringen, the two Swiss towns in the vicinity of our Airbnb chalet. A mere 8.6 miles, it should have only taken us thirty minutes on the curvy roads at the most. Google Map’s evil side (Fast Route) emerged and lead us onto a small dirt road that got smaller, darker and twistier.

“Pretty sure we’re on a bike path,” I piped up.

“No. Google Maps is constantly being updated, Mother.” When she calls me “mother” I know she is feeling superior to me.

“Oh dear,” I whispered, my eyes gleaming in triumph. Ahead of us a group of cyclists all dressed in professional gear with padded shorts and skintight shirts were grinding up the steep grade. They crested the hill and pedaled towards us. Their eyes were hidden behind their dark glasses, and they streamed by us in the red and white colors of the Swiss flag. They did not speak, and I could hear the straining of their breath as they passed our windows. Put a point in the imagination column.

We prepared for the trip by each choosing an activity that was a “ten”—in other words non-negotiable. We HAD to make them happen. SarahKate chose to go to Carl Jung’s House in Zurich. The Jung Museum had an address, times of operation, tour guides, and pamphlets. It was going to happen. I chose a Cow Crossing. It is a traditional event in the life of a village in rural Switzerland. Each year in late summer, the Swiss dairy farmers climb high into the alpine meadows to retrieve their large herds of cows that have been munching on the brilliant green grass for a couple of months. The cows wear large, heavy bells the size of soccer balls, and, as they descend the rocky paths, the townspeople hear them coming by the dull tinkling of the bells.  Everyone celebrates by meeting the cows and guiding them through the town. The people wear traditional festival clothes, the cows are given crowns of flowers, and they sing (the people, not the cows). I knew cow crossings were taking place all over Switzerland in September, but there certainly wasn’t a schedule, at least not one I could find.

“Explain to me how we are going to find a road where the farmer has chosen at that magic moment to bring his cows down from the alpine meadows and take them home to the farm’s pasture?” SarahKate’s hands gripped the steering wheel. The little Hunyadi came with lane assist which meant my daughter was constantly arguing with the car and pulling the wheel back into her control.

“It will happen. I know it will.” I gazed out the window at the sedate scenery of small rolling hills with flashes of bright blue water darting between the dells. We had headed northwest out of Zurich after SarahKate went to Jung’s house. She had seen his study left untouched for over fifty years. I had picked up two new cashmere sweaters at a garage sale that I had dickered down to thirty francs. We were both pleased.

“Let’s go to Appenzell,” I yelled pointing at a sign the Hyundai had just passed. “I have a feeling.” We trundled into town and sat down for lunch. Our waiter was friendly and even knew how to tease two American women who bickered non-stop while eating fried perch and coleslaw.

“Hey,” the waiter paused at our table and bent over to speak in a low voice. “Go to the street. Something magical is about to happen.” My eyes blazed at him. I knew instantly what it was. I heard the low, hollow sounds of the heroes’ bells returning from their summer away.

“Where are you going?” SarahKate called as I dashed out of the courtyard and into the street.

The cows walked like royalty, their milk chocolate-colored bodies swaying side to side as their hard black hooves clomped along the street. They were led by an older gentleman wearing brown leggings, a fringed leather coat and a white blouse that blossomed out of the top of his collar. More people wearing aprons, feathered hats, and smocked shirts walked alongside the herd, switches in hand, guiding the cows through the streets of Appenzell. I expected to hear singing, but instead the townspeople chanted and crooned in the same tones as the bawling of the bells.  

“Thank you,” I said to the waiter. “That’s all I really wanted from Switzerland.” He bowed and gave me a salute. Point for imagination.

Later that night we sat, exhausted, at a local pub and ordered dinner. I was still on my cow crossing high and SarahKate was explaining to me how Sigmund Freud was jealous of Jung’s popularity. Hmm. Although it would be a detour, I was interested in the roots of Freud’s jealousy. Another time.

“Here you go,” the waitress said with a flourish and set down my plate. Scallops of pale white meat swam in a rich brown gravy. “It is your calf.” She smiled politely.  

 “Don’t call it that,” I felt my eyes burn.

“But, what is wrong? You ordered calf, did you not?” She looked uneasy.

“Mom, it’s okay.” SarahKate patted my hand.

“I know what veal is, but no one has ever called it a calf right before I ate it,” I pushed my plate away. “I feel terrible.”

“Mother, you are not a bad person for eating veal. In fact,” SarahKate said stabbing the pork cutlet on her plate, “that little baby calf probably gave someone just like you great joy when it participated in its first,” she waved her fork like a conductor’s baton and swallowed her bite, “and ONLY cow crossing. Be happy.”

Point for logic, I suppose. There are some things you don’t want to imagine. I dug into my veal and chewed thoughtfully. It was delicious.