The first time I heard the story of the Little Engine That Could was on Captain Kangaroo. (How’s that for dating myself?!) Captain read that picture book often on his show, and 4-year-old me loved the illustrations as much as the story. Earlier this month, my oldest son Peter and I took a road trip out west to visit my son Andy and his family in Montana–and over the trip I had many opportunities to channel my inner Little Engine.
It was a Grand Adventure, Friend.
The trip out saw us going through the U.P. to Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota. There were miles and miles of empty roads and swarms of no-see-ums. We ate at the Beary Patch diner in the U.P. and were served by a made-for-TV grumpy diner waitress. There was the giant Hiawatha statue in Ironwood. We climbed Enger Tower in Duluth. Stopped for a visit with Paul Bunyan and Babe in Bemidji. And we ate breakfast at Perkins, an old standby in the Midwest. Along the road, we saw eagles and coyote and porcupines, oh my!
I was tired, dear Reader. The driving took its toll and muscles that I didn’t even know I had ached. My eyes itched (it was cottonwood season, after all) and I was bleary-eyed. It must be an age thing, considering I know who Captain Kangaroo is, but oof, I wasn’t expecting such exhaustion. I … think … I … can …
But then we spent a day in the wonder that is Teddy Roosevelt National Park and all that fatigue melted away. Years ago I read Mornings on Horseback and on this visit to TRNP (I’d been there briefly twenty-three years ago) I felt as though I, too, was exploring the wild countryside with Teddy. Bison herds trotted up over the road and just a few hundred feet away wild horses stood watch. We loved the prairie dog’s antics and walked the short Wind Canyon trail. Every turn of each twisty road revealed another majestic view.
We stayed with my son Andy and his family in Livingston, Montana for a few days where I always feel embraced by Andy and his wife Erica who welcome me despite the upset to their daily lives. The five of us road tripped to Yellowstone together for a long day of mud-pots and geysers and pools and waterfalls–and bison, of course! It was a joy to share it with my granddaughter Luna. In fact, on our return trip, she and her dad caravaned east with us to visit Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse and Devil’s Tower before turning back for a daddy-daughter camping trip of their own. It was good to spend time with my adult kids and a relief to learn we could all let the little irritations of travel slide because our time together was precious.
After Andy and Luna left, Peter and I faced the long slog across South Dakota towards home, still three days away. In Rapid City, my car, a ten-year-old Subaru Forester, began making a clipping noise intermittently. The car drove fine–no warning lights, odd smell, or smoke. I’d had it inspected and serviced several weeks before we left, so I wasn’t worried. But when we stopped at Wall Drug, I called a Subaru dealer in Sioux Falls and begged for an appointment the next morning just to see if it was travel worthy.
I didn’t make it.
Or rather, the car didn’t make it. Only half a mile from our exit to the hotel, the oil light flashed on, the engine cut out, and I pulled over to the shoulder on busy I-90. Dead. My son checked the oil–nuthin’. Fast forward to a kind state trooper, an accommodating tow company, and a night spent tossing and turning before a cab ride to the dealer where they gave me the news: RIP, little Suby. I guess my little Forester thought she could … but she couldn’t. There were some tears and to say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement. But what I’ll remember most were the miracles.
Like the fact that we crossed three hundred miles of range land with nary a town in sight–and broke down within sight of our Sioux Falls exit. (Can you say “angels”?) Like the fact that the trooper advised we cancel our AAA tow and use a local tow company because AAA was likely a few hours wait. (True–the local guy got to us within an hour.) Like the fact that every. single. person who heard about our situation, from the service department to the tow dispatch to the hotel front desk was sympathetic, kind, and tried their very best to reassure me. And that dealership? They offered options, didn’t pressure me, and just happened to have the make and model of the car I had pegged as my next car when the time came.
I guess the time came sooner than I expected because I drove home in that new-to-me car.
A Facebook friend commented on a post about my travel disaster, something to the effect that, I had “passed a very important trust exercise.” And of course my first snarky thought was, “I’ve had enough trust exercises over the past ten years, thankyouverymuch. I’m done.”
But really, I’m not. Because I was reminded last week–in a big way–that I get to choose. I get to choose if I rage or scream or laugh or cry when life turns upside down. I get to choose to believe the Universe is out to get me or angels are hovering. I get to choose whether to give up or go on.
And I think I can.
This is my symphony 