The plan seemed simple enough.
1 Budget truck, 2 sisters, and 13 States.
Of course when I told Mark about my plan he raised his brows and gave me that tell-tale look people give you when they're trying to ever so subtly gauge your current level of sanity.
The possibility of being driven mad by the muck of laundry and the unbearable strain of endless school lunch making does exist. These sorts of things eventually take its toll on the female brain. And the open road seemed like a great place to let out all that tension. Just as it did for Thelma and Louise. Which is how I got my poor sister involved. I figured she could play the part of Louise on my crazy road trip (I just didn't tell her we'd be driving a giant moving truck instead of a fabulous convertible). I baited her by telling her I'd throw in some great sight-seeing on the way, which seemed to send up enough smoke and mirrors around my suggestion that Steph quickly forgot the part about the 3,000 miles of sitting on a hard truck seat.
It all began when Mark's mom sold her house. Exciting news made all the more exciting when we realized that his sweet mother would be making a colossal move from Atlanta Georgia all the way across the country out to the Wild Wild West--to live among those suspicious creatures most Southerners refer to as "Yankees".
Mark's mom Joyce is from Memphis Tennessee. Just a year earlier she had sold her home in Florida and made the move to Georgia to be bit closer to her family in Memphis. To make the move from Florida to Georgia, she paid for movers to come and pack everything up and drive it to her new home. And when I heard how much she paid to move just one state away, I was speechless. I began to try and figure out how much more it would cost her to
move all the way across the country and I just couldn't bear it. And that's when my mouth opened and I exclaimed,
"I can drive a moving truck across the country waaaaay cheaper than that!"
At first Mark just nodded in agreement thinking I was just making a truthful statement.
The problem was, everyone just thought I was just stating the obvious. But I was not. What I was actually saying was,
"I really CAN drive a moving truck across the country WAAAAAY cheaper than that!"
Again Mark nodded in agreement so I said, "Really, I'm gonna drive her stuff, I'm not kidding." And that's when he squished up his face and furrowed his brows and leaned in real close to observe the size of my pupils while giving me me that
'you're kidding, right?' look.
But he knows me far to well. Impetuous adventurous is my life's master thesis.
So Mark and I headed off to Georgia to help pack everything up and put it all into a moving truck. Then the night before the Epic drive to west, my sister flew in from Utah.
Before hitting the road I wanted her to enjoy a little of Georgia. I warned her that just because she flew in late in the night, that I'd be waking her up early the next morning and forcing her to go kayaking. Joyce's home sits right on a lake. And while she still owned the house and her backyard dock, I was determined that we all had to take one last jaunt on the lake.
Despite being a little early, and having little sleep, Steph had a great time. How could you not love this lake? Joyce loves this place and I couldn't believe she'd trade it all in to live closer to us...in the rain soaked Northwest no less. That right there is a true mother.
After getting off the lake we headed to a lawyer's office where Joyce officially sold her home. In the South, they do everything a little differently...and selling a house is no exception. There in Georgia, instead of going through a title company they complete the transaction with a lawyer. Both the buyer and seller, along with their real estate agents and bankers, all sit around a big table like it's Sunday brunch. The lawyer reads every page of the transaction as if he were reading a Dicken's novel and every now and then he passes papers around the table for all parties to sign and instructs them to pass it around the table
"like you would a bowl of grits at breakfast." (that's a direct quote from the lawyer.) Somehow they've managed to put the charm even into real estate!
With the house sold, Steph and I were now ready to head out west. Mark stayed in Atlanta for some business meetings and Joyce, much deserved, flew to her new home in style. Although I can't imagine her first class seat was even close to being as fantastic as sitting in her kayak back at the lake, but it had to ease the journey to her new life just a bit.
That left Steph and I and our Budget truck and 3,000 miles to go.
First stop: The Pig.
Most folks out west think "The Pig" is a fictional grocery store made up by Hollywood. This included my sister. So I couldn't think of a more perfect place to load up on ice, soda, and macabre of unhealthy snacks for the long and fattening journey that lay ahead.
Then, one last trip to Sonny's to carb-load on fried okra.
Before leaving Georgia we stopped at CNN in downtown Atlanta. Notice we've gone full-on tourist by proudly sporting our pig shirts...
At this point something very crucial happened. Something I completely overlooked. This is where I realized my sister may not have been the best choice to play the role of "Louise" on our road trip. Within a few miles it became apparent that she may not have the bravado one has to summon to be a true road-warrior. No sooner had we gotten off the downtown Atlanta exit (in which I may have admittedly caught a little air and jumped our monstrous truck and side-skipped across a bridge to make a wild and steep corner in order to stay in my lane) my sister had her two feet on the dashboard, one hand securely on the grab bar, and began to cry out, "I think I should have brought some Zanex!"
Then as I headed for a public parking lot, I signaled to turn onto a very skinny one way street and Steph began hollering,
"You're NOT gonna make it! You're NOT gonna make it! You're NOT gonna make it!!!!" As you can imagine, these screams are not a real confidence builder for a driver who's concentrating on NOT jumping the curb and plowing over pedestrians.
All the while I'm countering her crazed cries by hollering back,
"I got this! I got this! I got this!" I made a sweeping hairpin turn to squeeze into the narrow street--successfully I might add-- with just a few inches to spare. Disaster abated, and no thanks to my petrified passenger who had now huddled herself into the fetal position. She slumped back into her seat and said, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe
we made that!"
We??? Seriously, I do not think she contributed to the success of my undeniably amazing squeeze play WHATSOEVER!
After a tour of CNN we headed out again. Naturally we hit traffic and Steph's newly calmed nerves began to go on full alert again. She took this picture of our Tom Tom's screen as she shook her head in disbelief at the insanity of traffic swirling around us in every direction...
I had to remind her that her job was to help the driver remain in a calm and relaxed state and not to contribute in any way to the mayhem going on in or outside of the truck. Unfortunately this is when she decided to distract herself by updating her Facebook status, which she ended up doing a lot as a way to cope. Honestly I haven't logged on to Facebook since getting home, I was to afraid of status' like, "I'M GONNA DIE!", and "Get me outta here!"
Many fellow travelers did double takes when we sped past them and they realized there were two girls at the helm of a big truck. These guys went to great lengths to catch up with us so they could flash us this sign:
You need to click on the photo above so you can study it carefully. This was a big crew-cab sized work truck with 6 guys stuffed inside. And, at the risk of sounding like I'm profiling a group of people, I will just come right out and say it was six of your landscaping worker type of guys. Which I will now, very uncooth-ly, stereotype as having lower standards of what is to be considered real beauty and attractiveness. That said, upon further study of the picture you should notice that my sister and I were rated a TEN. Not a prize-winning compliment given these particular judges but despite their undisputed low standard of excellence we did rate the highest score possible. Which, when converted to say, being rated by a BMW full of white collar workers, might put Steph and me in a solid 7 category, which we'd be happy to score.
You may also want to note, as we did, that it looks as if there are several sheets of paper under the "10" scorecard. This means we were surely not the first to be scored by these shrub-pruners. But it also means they were prepared to score us much lower on the hot-ness scale had they felt so inclined. So all in all, a good day on the road.
With Atlanta in our side-mirrors, we kept heading west and crossed the border into Alabama.
...Now I must pause here for I know this might upset a certain reader to hear this tragic truth.
Years ago when Mark first took me to Atlanta, his good friend Billy showed true Southern hospitality by taking us on a day long road trip across the South. Mark and I packed into a car along with Billy and his family and we toured Arkansas, Tennessee, and Mississippi. If you'll look on a map you'll notice there was a big hole in Billy's trip itinerary. That would be the ENTIRE state of Alabama, which, Billy informed me, should be one state I should be "proud I've never been to." Like an Amish shunning, Billy took great pains to sidestep that entire state, skirting it like it was the plague--a cause which he had such conviction towards that he probably burned up two extra tank fulls of gas to prove his sincerity to avoid the almost unavoidable. Then, the following day, Billy rented the movie Deliverance to show me exactly why he was the kindest most generous friend on the planet for not taking me there.
So as you can image, it was with much trepidation that I left the safety of the great state of Georgia and entered into Alabama. I could hear in my head Billy's voice screaming "No! No!" and could feel the deep disappointment he would inevitably suffer though when he inevitably learns of my scandalous misdeed. (Sorry Billy! Someone get him a paper bag to breath in...) And I fully expect him to bill me for the extra tanks of gas he burned long ago...all for nothing now that I've gone and done the unthinkable. During the drive through, I warned my sister to carefully keep a keen vigil for any sound of a banjo--knowing that would certainly be my cue to turn back and run for the safety of Georgia! (See Billy, I did learn something from that movie!)
Though no sooner had we stopped to take our first of many dashboard self-portraits at our first of many state signs, we spotted a sign telling us we were crossing through Talladega Alabama near the Talladega Superspeedway.
Talladega? Seriously...Steph and I both thought it was made up for a movie-much like the Piggly Wiggly. So we couldn't resist getting off the exit and taking a picture. And no visit to the speedway would be complete without getting out of the truck and running around in a circle while screaming, "I'm on fire! I'm on fire!"
To my great fortune, a nice gentleman drove up while I was in the middle of my Ricky Bobby tirade (probably to see if we were indeed on fire) and so we asked him to take our picture...
Next, I must make a comment about this Alabama sign below.
You do not see this kinda of thing in Oregon. In Oregon we're a 65mph state and 55mph through most cities. Out west you never see a MINIMUM speed posted...EVER. That's because our speeds are so excruciatingly slow we tend to be a state chuck full of lawless speeders.
At first I thought it was weird to see a MINIMUM speed sign. Who on earth would have to be told to go over 40 on a freeway?? Certainly NOT an Oregonian.
Well, now I know. It became absolutely dumbfounded to find out that the people in Alabama actually NEED to be told this. Who could have imagined that, behind the wheel of my formidable moving truck,
I was the fastest thing on the road? NEAR A SUPER-SPEEDWAY no less. Seriously, I was not passed even once. I think I was in the left-hand passing lane the entire time I was in that state, while the turtle traffic on my right looked as if it was a blur of parked cars. Seriously, I now see the wisdom behind the sign and think they should post a lot more of them! Apparently these folks aren't in a hurry to get to their banjo lessons.
With that said, (skip over this part Billy-you've been aptly warned) Alabama was a pretty state to drive through. (Now I'll be billed not only for two extra tanks of gas but an additional pain and suffering fee.)
Next we headed through Mississippi and into Tennessee. This is where Mark's mom was born and raised. Back in the day, she even babysat for Johnny Cash.
Years ago, as a new bride, when I had my Southern debut to Mark's side of the family, I made the mother of all Memphis mistakes. Everyone in his extended family came out to meet his new bride. During a family dinner I was asked if I'd gone to see "Elvis' place" since arriving in town. And when I told them I hadn't, many of the older folks got a perplexed look on their faces as if I'd told them the sky was falling. Suddenly one of them blurted out, "Well why not?"
And now I will tell you exactly how to answer this question if you would like to say something so taboo that a throng of well-meaning younger folks will all kick you simultaneously under the table to alert you to the fact that you've crossed a line...you say this,
"I've been so busy seeing other things that I just haven't had the time." Oh man is that the wrong thing to say. Within a few hours I was marched like a mischievous school girl strait to Graceland to set things right. There was quite a crowd that day so all I ended up seeing on that trip was the "Lisa Marie", Elvis' private jet.
So this time, so that my sweet mother-in-law would not suffer the pains of having her family wonder how such a crazed Yankee had managed to join their ranks and defile the family name, I headed strait for Graceland to do my duty.
Here's Steph and I taking the self-guided audio tour. I had to resuscitate her at the ticket counter when she learned I'd paid $60 bucks for the two of us to, as she called it, "tour a dead guy's house". (That's a darn Yankee for you.)
Seriously, I thought it was well worth the money. My head was abuzz with decorating ideas. Mirrored ceilings downstairs in the media room! Very posh. Now when you lose the remote you don't have to look all over the couch for it. If you're already reclined simply glance up at the ceiling and
voila! search for your remote without having to move anything but your eyes! Takes all unnecessary strain out of being a couch potato (Perhaps that's why Elvis may have put on a few pounds). So while everyone else was taking pictures of the TV Den, Steph and I were taking photos of ourselves in the mirrored ceiling...
People take this tour very seriously. It's like a Southern Mecca. Large heards of women-folk all flock to Memphis to make annual pilgrimages to this mansion/mausoleum. For them, it's pure rapture.
Meanwhile my sister and I might as well have been two impish children sacrilegiously giggling on a church pew from the glances we received by some of the more devout Presley parishioners. Near the end of the tour we couldn't help taking turns posing like Elvis in front of this portrait...
Now for some mid-trip driving notes:
First, I'm a complete Loser. By day two I'd lost my credit card out of my back pocket. This is really bad news if you plan on buying inordinate amount of gasoline over the next couple of days. Or if you weren't planning on sleeping in the truck or hoped to eat. Luckily I went to high school with the girls who worked down at my bank and they transferred some cash from one of my bank accounts to my debit card--all with a quick phone call. 20 minutes later, we were back in the moving business.
Later that afternoon, I lost my dang gas cap. Apparently I can navigate a big ol' truck in a traffic jam but I can't put a gas cap on correctly. However, I used my stealthy MacGyver skills and made this very effective replacement cap. For those of you who may find yourself in a similar predicament just tear off a corner of a Hefty trash bag and fasten it on with a hairband. Genius. This baby NEVER got lost or stolen. Made it all the way across the country!
Next, some notes on how to pick a co-pilot for your next cross-country journey:
First, as stated earlier, you might want to pre-qualify your co-pilot by making sure your choice as a road companion is not in any way skiddish or jumpy. Take my word for it, if they have nervous tendencies, they will absolutely
freak out if you start navigating in areas where:
- Traffic is unusually heavy
- You cruise down the highway anywhere close to "shake-apart speed" (that would be 70mph in this case)
- You operate a large truck on narrow streets
- You drive through any neighborhood where you don't look like anyone else and all the windows and doors are barred up.
- You lose your credit card AND gas cap on the same day.
The next passenger skill you need to know in advance is how they read a simple map. Here my sister is showing the WRONG way to do such a thing. I had to explain to her that we were piloting a GIANT truck and that I was playing the part of "Maverick" and that would make her my wingman "Goose". I told her a good Goose is a Maverick's eyes and ears. That means Goose doesn't block Maverick's field of view. Here she is blinding me from my ever-important side view mirror:
I had to train her to read the map in a downward position...
...which she would do while rolling her eyes at me beneath her sunglasses.
...which made me respond with this mature gesture...
That night we made it into Arkansas where we spent the night. Arkansas...can I just say I'm dumbfounded. Seriously after seeing this state for the second time, I am still wondering who was the wise guy who thought it would be a good idea to have the man who governed this state become the leader of our country. Really. Who thought that was a peach of an idea??
Next, onto St. Louis Missouri to see the Arch. For those of you not so lucky to have ventured this way let me tell you the Arch is a formidable attraction for many reasons. Luckily the view from the top is pretty cool but a serious commitment is evolved to get you up to the top. Let's just say I can imagine an attempt to summit K2 and then returning safely back to base camp can't be all that different of a challenge than getting to the top of this monument.
First of all, you're lulled into the whole affair because you don't climb a stairway to the top, you ride up there. Easy right? Oh, that's what they want you to think! The cover-up starts with the line for tickets, which is deceptively short. Just hop in a short line and buy a cheap $6 ticket. Piece of cake. What they don't tell you is that your ticket isn't good for about an hour or so. Time enough to wander around and do some soul searching to see if you're really committed to wait it out for a nice view you could easily enjoy by perusing the postcard rack at the gift shop-which, incidentally, is full of people all waiting for their scheduled time to officially WAIT in a real line. An hour or so later, it's time for you to finally hand in your ticket so that you can now
wait in line. A line you don't realize you'll be standing in for another hour. By the time you're entombed in the middle of it, you realize you should have brought food, water, and a copy of both Homer's Iliad AND Odyssey. Luckily, my sister had her phone with her so she could update her status to "waiting, still waiting."
Long past lunchtime when your hunger pains are telling you to bolt for the door and abandon the glory of a summit, you begin to slowly move towards "the pods".
These pods can only be described as a group MRI machine. This contraption will definitely troubleshoot your claustrophobic problem areas and any fellow passengers undiagnosed enclosed-spaced phobias as well. 4 minutes in this bugger and you're ready to bungee jump off once you reach to top, in order to get down and avoid being squished in this thing for a second time with four other people who may or may not have used deodorant as part of their morning regimen.
That said, the view is awesome. A visionary splendor for exactly two and a half minutes until the awe and wonder of the view dims and escape plans begin to encroach your thoughts. Luckily, just like Disneyland, they've got a "single rider" system at the St. Louis Arch. And so, to my sister's surprise, when they announced there were three spots open for any single riders, I quickly grabbed Steph and said, "We're single riders!". Soon we found ourselves taking the plunge down in separate pods but nonetheless happily avoiding yet another unbearably long wait to get back down.
When we got back off at ground level, I left my pod full of panic-stricken blue-hairs to find Steph had ridden down with a bunch of airline pilots who, when they heard she was driving across the country in a moving van, offered to fly her back home. I got her out of there before she could take them up on their offer...so what if she constantly obscures my field of vision, updates her FB status every hour instead of giving me live traffic reports, or backed me up into a parking spot that put my rear bumper one and a half inches away from taking down a power transformer! She may have made a bad "Goose" but she was a nice enough "Louise" to pop open my Diet Cokes and feed me chocolate Pop Tarts when I needed a snack.
We got lunch at Culvers where I introduced Steph to the best burger on the planet. On the road headed north, she made herself very useful by Googling all nearby Culvers locations so we could plan our dinner stop accordingly. She was hooked.
Honestly, Iowa and Nebraska were a blur that I decided to drive through mostly in the dark of night. I was getting to be a pretty stealthy truck driver by then and I was focused on putting the miles down.
In Wyoming I began to have some serious remorse for naming my daughter Cheyenne. Never having been there before I realized the necessity of visiting a place before you name your kid anything tied to a particular place. Probably should have checked it out before permanently naming my daughter a name that would forever be linked to that town. Sorry Cheyenne, this place is no beauty. If I had to do it all over again, I would have named you Rockport.
Finally we made it to Utah where I got a really good night's sleep at my sister's house-with just a few drawbacks. Once again I found myself sleeping in my neice Cailey's room under the laminated poster of Edward. Jacob was now there too in all his shirtless splendor.
Unfortunately the next morning this is where 'Thelma and Louise' finally had to part ways. My sister and I laughed and ate our way across the country with reckless abandon and had the best time ever.
Thanks to the self-timer, we managed to take plenty of dashboard self-portraits...
It was a long a lonely drive from Utah back to Oregon. Time enough to reflect on a very successful road trip and a few lessons I learned on the open road...
- Georgia is a long way from Oregon.
- Fried Okra will make you fat, dumb enough to lose your gas cap, but also very happy.
- Mississippi takes the best care of their roadways, Arkansas the worst.
- Claustrophobia is no laughing matter.
- Nobody expects a chick to get out of a big truck. Expect to get stared at.
- I really shouldn't stand next to my sister and take a photo, it makes me look HUGE (or was that the okra and ribs?).
- Blinkers are optional when you're driving a big truck. People will move outta your way should you decide to use it or not.
- If Culver's expanded out west, so would my waistline.
- Some people really do need to be told to drive faster.
- Walking in Memphis will cost you $30 a head.
- Be nice to the people who you go to high school with, they may work at your bank when you're older and need to transfer funds.
- Every Thelma needs a Louise. My sister may be no Goose, but she makes a hilarious Louise.
AND...
- I really can drive a moving truck across the country WAAAAY cheaper than that!
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