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Manner of Travel

Date: December 10, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

“Driving a brand new car feels like driving around in an open billfold with the dollars flapping by your ears as they fly out the window.” (Grey Livingston)

Not that I know a heck of a lot about driving a brand new car these days. However, when in one moment you discover all of your possessions (including your money, your home and your automobiles) have been seized by the government, and you’re visualizing being left alone as a single mother to raise your four children in a cardboard box on the street, you’re grateful for ANY vehicle to drive, regardless of how used it is.

At least, that’s how I felt and what I was telling myself the day the passenger window of our little, used, red car unrolled itself for no reason as we drove down the street—and unfortunately, wouldn’t roll itself up again. We tried everything we could think of to “fix” it, but to no avail. We consulted a car dealer who estimated it would cost between $200-$300 to fix. So we taped up the gaping hole with garbage bags and hockey tape (no duct tape for the Merrimans, we’re a hockey family!) and drove the car as it was while my children and I contemplated what we were going to sacrifice to be able to afford to fix the window.

It was a chilly, unforgettable experience that resulted in having to keep a close eye on Utah weather, to ensure our little car was in the garage when it rained, or snowed.

“…that’s the wonderful thing about family travel:  it provides you with experiences that will remain locked forever in the scar tissue of your mind.” (Dave Barry)

As the temperature dropped and the precipitation increased, and as I experienced the unforgettable memories that come with driving a car in the winter with no window, buried under blankets and blasting the heat in an attempt to stay somewhat comfortable as I drove around town…I had to shake my head and laugh at another unexpected adventure that was now mine! How far I’ve come from my previous life! (It was a chilly reminder of some not so subtle differences between my old life and now.)

And then, safety reasons aside, it simply got too cold. There was no other choice; we had to fix the window. And as in more times than I can count since moving into the cul-de-sac with the greatest neighbors in the history of Utah and the world, once again, a neighbor came to my rescue.

One neighbor noticed the “garbage bag window” and suggested we have her husband look at it. Her husband followed up on her offer before I could even call him. He recommended a repair place, we dropped the car off, and when my son went to pick it up, the repair shop wouldn’t let us pay for it because my neighbor had taken care of it. I called my neighbor, asked how much I owed him, and he wouldn’t let me pay him. When I tried to argue against that, he hung up on me. (Just kidding. He said the call dropped for no apparent reason.) But the bottom line was, my neighbor took care of our car problem for us. (Not for the first time, I might add.)

Scar tissue. It comes with the territory of an unexpected life. But the above is an example of the kind of “scar tissue” I’m experiencing. The kind that covers everything. And heals.

Thanks to our neighbors, we’re traveling in style (with all windows in the car) again. And we couldn’t be happier.

“Happiness is not a station you arrive at, but a manner of traveling.” (Margaret B. Runbeck)

Isn’t that the truth?

And many thanks, again, to all those who exemplify traveling in such style and who help us make happiness our manner of traveling, as well.

The Importance of a Kind Word

Date: November 4, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

“You know, somebody actually complimented me on my driving today. They left a little note on the windscreen, it said, ‘Parking Fine.’” (Tommy Cooper)

Years ago, a young woman I knew, and her parents, were killed in an airplane crash as they flew their daughter to college. They left behind three other children to continue on in a life they never expected. At the funeral someone shared that the mother sent notes to people. It was her “thing.” Her thoughtful way to express her gratitude, love, hope and encouragement to others. I was surprised at that revelation. I had received one of those notes, yet had never stopped to think that others might have too. I remember how much I appreciated that note. And then I realized how much effort, on a daily basis, that must have been for her. But what a wonderful way to live life. Taking a few moments each day to send a little light, in the form of a note, to someone else.

Recently I was cleaning out my closet and found a box. It was filled with cards, letters, notes, empathetic expressions and encouraging words from THAT time. Spring 2009. When my world fell apart. At the time I received them, I was in shock and living a nightmare. I read them as they arrived, grateful for each and every one of them. I appreciated the various methods of delivery–some came in the mail, some were tucked in the crack of my front door, some were placed under the wiper blade on the windshield of my car, some were scribbled on scraps of paper and shoved in my hand as the writer passed me in the hall at church or my children’s schools. However they arrived, whatever they were written on, each lifted me and helped me press on. Then I put them away in a box–saved them for when I moved from Colorado to Utah, alone, didn’t know anyone, and needed of a kind word of encouragement from a friend.

It seemed like rereading those thoughtful notes was the only word of encouragement I got from anyone some days.

Bachelor #5 is really good to write thoughtful messages and cards for any occasion (or no occasion), that truly brighten my day. And not just me. The day my son lettered in Varsity track, Bachelor #5 had a card for him, too. I think some people have a talent for that. But I also believe it’s a talent we all can, and probably should, develop. Especially with so many people in the world confronted by unexpected lives and in need of a kind word.

I’m going to write more notes.

I’m on the other side of my unexpected life now. I’ve risen from the ashes of destruction, I’m past the shock and trauma. I’m healing–I guess you could say I’m in the rebuilding/recreating phase. But I received a Facebook message from an old friend that brightened my outlook on life the same as other notes did in 2009: “Well, the old geezer is checking up on ya! Almost a year since our last exchange. Knowing you from many years ago, I think it’s a good bet that the sun is back in the sky. I have thought of you often…but am certain you have found a way to not only survive but excel, it’s just who you are. So, young lady, dare you to prove me wrong, dare ya! Fill me in on your adventure!”

Besides the fact that he called me “Young Lady,” I LOVE his digital note. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve been through, how can you NOT feel like you’re going to make it when someone sends such a positive note of confidence in your ability to do that? I am so thankful for him, and for the many good people everywhere, who have taken the time to encourage me, verbally or in writing.

I think I’ll send him a note and tell him that.

And then maybe I’ll suggest he read my blog, so he can read my adventure for himself.:)

Drive.

Date: May 4, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

In the spring of 2009, after I entered the beginning phase of my unexpected life but before my divorce was final and I moved to Utah, my oldest came to me and invited me to go for a drive with him.

It was dark, late at night, but you never turn down an opportunity to spend time with your children. Especially at their invitation. Especially living through what we were living through. We were all we had.

We got in the car, he drove, and he headed away from the city lights toward the rural areas near our neighborhood. Pretty soon he spoke. “Mom,” he asked. “Do you WANT to move to Utah?”

Clearly, the move was on his mind and I couldn’t blame him. He was one of the few kids today who had lived in the same house, with the same schools and friends, never moving, everything the same, since he was eight months old. And now we were moving to begin a completely new life his junior year of high school in another state. Not quite the ideal time for such change. But then again, is there ever an ideal time to lose your entire life and everything you have ever known? At barely 16 years old?

How did I answer that?

With the truth.

I told him I’d been a Colorado resident since 1974 and had lived in the Denver area, with the same phone number, for 20 years. The only time I had left Colorado since then was to attend college, and even then, I loaded the moving van THE DAY I graduated from college and returned to Colorado. I reminded him I had built my entire adult life in Denver and living in Colorado was all I had ever really known. Most of my friends were in Colorado. Would I choose to leave all of that? Would I willingly do it if I didn’t HAVE to?

No.

But the job I desperately needed and had been hired to do (and was grateful for) was in Utah. Try as I had to stay in Colorado, everything had worked out for a new life in Utah. I had come to realize and accept that. I truly FELT that Utah was where we were supposed to go, for some reason.

My son looked at me with a shocked expression. (I guess I hadn’t complained enough about all of the changes and the move because he hadn’t realized the move might be hard for me too.) But it seemed to help him to know that the move was difficult for me too.

Kindred spirits in our grief.

So we made the move. It would be less than truthful if I didn’t admit IT WAS HARD. There were moments I wondered if my oldest would be scarred for life from the experience. It terrified me when I’d make the last round through the house late at night, before I went to bed, and I wouldn’t find him in bed. (That happened several times.) In a panic, I’d search the entire house and not find him. And then I’d eventually discover him outside, in the dark of the warm summer night, on the front lawn sobbing his grief.

It killed me. I couldn’t help but join him. All I could say through my tears was, “I’m sorry. I am SO SORRY that this is the life I have given you. I wanted more for you. You deserve more. But I promise you, I am here for you and will do anything I can to help you. Someday it will be all right.”

But inside I wondered how it, and he (and if I’m being totally honest, me, too) would ever be all right.

We endured the slow start to adjusting and making friends in a new state. We endured all that switching high schools entailed. It was hard for him to let go of his old life. Not the money–the life, the friends, the place he lived, the activities he participated in, everything BUT the money, actually. He felt as if he had lost everything.

In a way, I guess it was good for me. At the time I was so sick with worry about my children and helping them get through their experiences, I couldn’t really even take a moment to think about myself. I had to focus my effort and energy into helping my children make the transition, and as I did, somehow I made it right along with them.

Fast forward several months. And that same son came to me and told me he liked Utah. And then one day he told me he liked his new high school better than his old one. And then he told me he was happy and felt completely normal! I knew, then, that we had arrived. And everything really would be ok. All right.

Fast forward a few more months. And last night, my son got home from work at 11 p.m. and came to check in with me. The house was quiet, everyone else was asleep, and he invited me to go for a drive. All I could think about was the last drive I remembered taking with him. In Colorado.

I must have looked surprised, maybe even hesitant, because he entreated, “Come on, mom. I haven’t seen you all day. Lets talk.” You never turn down an opportunity to spend time with your children. Especially at their invitation.

We got in the car. He drove.

He talked to me about life and his contentment, happiness and joy with all of it was evident. He asked me about my life, and I told him how good my life is, but did share one small worry with him. He stopped the car, smiled at me, put his hand on my knee, patted it, and told me it would be all right.

And it will be.

Both he, and I, know it.

We just keep driving. And eventually, everything IS all right.

Our destination? Peace, happiness and joy…in our unexpected life. All right.

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