Glassboro, Swedesboro, Marcus Hook

On slippage

When I considered what to do for my birthday I immediately knew I’d go visit my mother. Who had more to do with my birthday than she? Off I went.

She has recently moved into an assisted living place in Pennsylvania, a drive that claims it will be 2 hours and twenty minutes but is always around three. Usually I stay in a Hilton Garden Inn, my favorite chain, but I have discovered that one day at a time is enough for her so this time I’d do a round trip for lunch. Lots of driving, I agree.

I set off before seven a.m. Many hours for reflection. I listened to the radio for a while, cavorting with Bruce, the Beatles, and Pearl Jam. MSNBC had Joe and Mieke, whose target listener I am not. Buck up, I want to say to them. You’re rich, you’ve had plastic surgery, go enjoy! I do always feel badly about how Trump insulted her. He isn’t a gentleman. Doesn’t that disqualify him, first and foremost? It’s not hard to be a gentleman. Presidents should be, if they are not women or other genders.

Such were my thoughts. I passed by the names of towns that rang with the sounds of my youth. They were memories in their own right, those names. Earlier in the week I’d made a list of names of all the places girls I knew in kindergarten went to in the summer and on vacations. Those words sent me flying! I couldn’t imagine the places, only knew the minimum, lake, sea, mountain, snow. The names were jackets my friends put on that disappeared them for a while. During the summers when we were scattered I repeated words as I lay in bed. Now here were other names from my youth, often without a memory of place attached. The sounds move me. Listen—Glassboro, Swedesboro, Downington, Chadds Ford, Brandywine, Kennet Square. The stuff of daydreams.

My brother got up to no good in Marcus Hook. I know that much.

I wish there were a GPS device where you could set a route and it wouldn’t change. I wish I had the choice to take a bit more time in lieu of scary roads. GPS makes a lot of assumptions about people, number one being that time is of the essence. I don’t disagree, but five minutes more for a less stressful drive? How can I arrange that?

I chose a route before I left from among those offered. It was a bit longer but had less twists and turns, I liked that. But then was pushed to exit early and I plunged into the land of Wawas, aka Pennsylvania. How many Tastycake Butterscotch Krimpets did I buy in Wawa in the day, and how many drugs in the parking lot? Sadly it all shows.

I drove by huge warehouses built on ravaged fields and I thought of all the animals that had been destroyed and displaced to build these buildings. Then I slipped; I thought if I moved there maybe I could get a job in one of those warehouses and live in an old stone house from the colonial era. I forgot I was old and thought maybe in a warehouse job I’d have friends and would punch in and out; and maybe even a uniform. Then I snapped back and remembered I am old and not getting any job again, ever, I’m sticking with the one I have until I retire. It was exactly like reminding myself that someone is dead as I dial their number, having momentarily forgotten. A reality check.

I slipped again. What about snakes, I thought. What’s the snake situation in, say, Unionville, Pa, are they in the basements of old stone colonial houses? I was in a horse show in Unionville once, I slipped to that event. I did well in shows but I was always as nervous jumping fences as I am driving a car. Horses know and they don’t love the nerves, nor do cars for that matter. I spent a Covid quarantine year curing myself of snake fear but I still have the habit of wondering about them. Especially after I just saw a video of a woman being squeezed by her massive pet constrictor even though the woman called the snake “pretty baby.”

How many constrictor stories have I heard? More than I need to get by.

I slipped and slipped and slipped all over. I wondered how far I was from the ocean, a constant calculation, and I thought of how I’ve slipped away from it. Slipped and slipped back from the coast to places where I can afford to live. Now I have ocean screen savers.

My mother is adjusting. I didn’t ask her to reminisce about my birth. I am tired of me, truth be told, enough is enough. And I know the part of the story where an IV line was inserted incorrectly so the back of her hand filled with fluid to the point where she thought her skin would split but she didn’t call the nurse out of shyness and not wanting to bother anyone. I picked that up as I made my way through the birth canal.

Now in my old age I would call the nurse but I’d apologize. I take the contrarian position or perhaps not contrarian but mine alone that I love women for saying they are sorry so often. Don’t @ me for that, please.

I arranged a FaceTime call between my mother and her sister out west, and listened from a polite distance as they giggled.

It was a good way to celebrate. I brought her a bowl of pansies. She gave me her pearls. I wore them after I got home as I rewatched a couple of episodes of Wolf Hall, my body thrumming from six hours of driving. Then I slipped into bed. Slip, slip, slip, it’s true what they say about time getting very speedy as the years go on. And about memories resurfacing like rocks in a spring lawn. West Philadelphia, Haverford, Gladwyne, Gambier, Philly again, London, Manhattan, Montclair. Where to next? Is there an affordable seaside left in the world? Or do I close my eyes and slip backward until I feel the cold sand on the soles of my feet?

One thing I do know. I’m glad I have lived this long. A lot has cleared up. Relationships have been repaired, and friendships reawakened. I’ve put so much fear and anxiety behind me. I understand things better. I’ve learned to live in the moment a lot of the time. When I slip I know how to make my way back. If I slip away forever, may there be pansies, pearls, and no snakes.