I had made plans detailing my return engagement to Connecticut with a pal of mine when she called the evening before our departure to regretfully inform me that events beyond her control dictated her cancellation. I handled the news maturely, of course, throwing a great big ol' temper tantrum. My husband and daughter were also concerned. Mama Mosiman had never driven so far by herself before and has a notorious history of easily getting lost. When Brad and I first got married, stationed out at Fort Drum near Watertown, NY, he pointed me toward the main (straight-as-an-arrow) highway. "You'll want to go South," my new husband said helpfully, "if you go North, you'll end up at the Canadian border." He took note of my confused look and amended his instructions, "Turn left." The next day, I was pulled over by the cute little Canadian customs booth, crying while I explained that I didn't want to visit the Great White North. I was only looking for the mall. This would be Brad's first exposure to my severe spatial limitations. I am diagnosed geographically unaware.
"Don't go," my husband pleaded. "Re-schedule," Sydney suggested. "Dad...stop her," Savannah said from Connecticut. But I was determined. I was, after all, a grown woman. So, after crying most of the night, I grabbed my box of tissues and jumped in the truck. How hard could this be, I thought to myself as I maneuvered Titan onto the road. I thought of all the women pioneers out there, criss-crossing the map. Amelia Earhart. Wait...no. Scratch that. That ended badly. Sydney, at age 19, drove to Connecticut. My friend Sarah went to Peru. Savannah traipsed all over Alaska. My friend Geri drives all over the place by herself. I can do this, I though resolutely, Jesus, Titan and I are doing this!
I didn't actually screw up until well into the third hour of my travels. I was enthusiastically singing "Sympathy for the Devil," with the Stones when I belatedly noticed a flash of pink on Syd's GPS but it was too late. I'd missed my exit. I drove twenty miles out of my way and punished myself by listening to a string quartet for the next thirty minutes.
Pausing at a rest-stop, I refueled with gas and a Snickers and was surprised to learn something new about myself. I do NOT like a king-sized Snickers. The proper proportion of chocolate, caramel, nougat, and peanuts tastes off to me plus the bar is too big. And while this discovery was shocking, I felt that I would eventually emerge as a better, stronger person armed with this new knowledge about myself.
"Cecilia and the Satellite" got me off-track in Hartford, Connecticut's capital city. Fortunately, Connecticut's capital city is comprised of perhaps four blocks so I was able to get back on track pretty easily but still, imposed a self-punishment of listening to thirty minutes of vintage bluegrass which sounds eerily similar to 1970s Hawaii.
Feeling victorious, I successfully pulled into Savannah's parking lot approximately seven hours after having departed to see her waiting at her third story apartment window. Calls and texts had apparently been flying fast and furious between New York and Connecticut as my family tried to casually track my progress. "The eagle has landed," Savannah typed to her father before racing down the stairs to greet me. I made it, I thought smiling, patting Titan's warm hood. I sighed, Thank you, Jesus.
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