But I see it in their eyes –that twinkle of suspicion when I reject conventional medicine. I thought it was common knowledge that doctors are in bed with pharmaceutical companies, in cahoots with dairy and poultry farmers and that maybe humans weren’t intended to eat or drink from a cow. Apparently it is taboo to suggest to the layman that fruits and veggies might actually heal our ailments. And I look back at their skeptical eyes tentatively, like they are the ones conspiring against me.

Granted, the only people I’ve bounced these notions off of are Raw Vegans and their Fruitarian counterparts. These Foodians speak another language; one that I understand, but have trouble translating back into Normie.

Is this hogwash, it is all psychological?

The doctor I saw today confirmed all of my nagging reservations. It wasn’t the fact that I sat for 20 minutes, swinging my feet from the high bed waiting for him to see me. Or the fact that he failed to apologize for keeping me waiting. Or even his “Just eat everything in moderation” comment –although I did want to fire back with, “Great, so high fructose corn syrup can moderately eat away at my essential organs. No thank you.” It was his pious tone, the way he held his chin up a little too high that made me want to scream. He was the answer man. And, to him, all I could possibly have are questions.

With a puffed up chest, he proceeded to tell me a story he’d heard on Paul Harvey: “There was this little town in South Carolina where this group of people had discovered what they thought was the fountain of youth. They were all healthier than the rest of the town, woke up early each morning and walked a mile to and from the well that held the source of their good health. Medical tests showed that they were indeed healthier than the rest of the town,” he said, throwing up a hesitant finger. “But if you think about it, that test failed to bring a few things into consideration.”

Had my mother not taught me manners, I would have plugged my fingers in my ears. I knew where he was going with this.

“This was a group of people who were walking two extra miles each day” he said counting his first point on his finger, “they were motivated to seek good health and feeling good about what they were doing, which is a psychological nourishing of sorts.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded in agreement, so he would hurry up and finish.

 “When the scientists finally studied the water, they found it to be no different than average creek water. No fountain of youth. It was all in their minds.”

Is it all in my mind that my health is directly linked to how I eat? Regardless, I was appalled that I blew a $15 co-pay on a five minute Paul Harvey recap.

As my six minutes drew to a close, he continues dispelling my myths about healthy eating.

“We can tell you how to eat all day, but nobody listens to us anyway,” he said, filling out my prescription. “Besides, we’re learning that there is no scientific research that supports healthy eating.” He tore of my drug ticket and handed over floppy piece of paper with a conclusive smile.

I walked out of his office like the rest of his patients, sent straight into a life of drug dependence. And somehow my objections make me the nude hitchhiker disrupting the peace –as if the dirty exchange of sick, Twinkie ingesting patients from doc in the boxes to the Walgreens or CVS on every other corner pharmacies on every corner was ever creating peace.  

I want my missing peace back. No more pills, I want answers. I want to be spoken to in two-syllable words that I can understand. I want practical measures, not procedures that cost me thousands of dollars only to tell me that I need another one or a pricey bottle of pills. That doesn’t come in generic yet. That I will have to take until I die.

I want a doctor who will tell me the truth. Someone please tell me the truth. Tell me that you only took one semester of nutrition during medical school and then send me to someone who knows what they are talking about. Meanwhile, do some of your own research –maybe you’ll remember why you got into medicine in the first place, surely that you didn’t hang up your hat when you finally pulled that Mercedes into the driveway.

Then again, maybe I am a fool. Maybe it’s foolish to make waves these days, not just follow doctor’s orders like an ignorant sheep. But I refuse to be another piece of plastic on an assembly line, another contributor to their monetary empire. I won’t contribute to it, even if I contribute to a few odd looks from others along the way.

“We need to make sure it’s not poisoned,” she always says with a wink. She doesn’t care about his skin color or that he’s just the milk man.

They sit at Mrs. Hanley’s shimmering Formica kitchen table, dunking chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, into a tall glass of milk. She entertains him with stories about the grandkids she never sees, but sends crisp five dollars to in a card on their birthdays. He listens, a constant smile across his gentle face. A realistic man, Dan never overstays his welcome, always standing once his glass is empty, only tiny cookie crumbs and white film left behind.

“Thanks for the hospitality, ma’am.” Dan thanks her every time.

“Oh, pooh.” Mrs. Hanley grabs his hand the same way each week, patting it and slipping him the milk payment. Of course, she could never reimburse him for his time.

But today is different. Dan’s wife just ran out him last night, taking their son with her. He stares down a long day of deliveries through a veil of tears. Drying his eye, he throws on his uniform and sets out to please one problem free all-American home after the next. He walks down the streets where he has worked as a milkman for eight years, straining to keep his chin parallel to the ground.

Tears return when he passes Mr. Johnson playing catch in the front yard with his son, Mrs. Johnson planting some geraniums behind them. He wants to quit. He only has one house left and he would quit, if the final delivery weren’t to Mrs. Hanley. So he marches on. He doesn’t have time to complain about life not being fair, he has a responsibility.

After five minutes of knocking, he sees Mrs. Hanley slowly shuffle towards the screen door.

“Mrs. Hanley,” he says, pulling down his cap. “You alright?”

She pulls back the screen door and grabs for his collar, pushing him backwards. The crate of milk slips from his hands and shatters under Mrs. Hanley as she falls to the ground. Dan looks up from rose bed where he landed and sees Mrs. Hanley. Her eyes are open. He crawls toward her but she does not blink. He rushes to check her pulse. This time he lets the tears surge and looks up at the clear blue sky. He has nothing left to do but cry over spilt milk.

Could you please bring me an easier year in 2009?  ’08 was a bit of a tough one and I’d just as soon not suffer a repeat performance.  Between health issues, the economy, and global warming, I’m ready to pull the covers up over my head and write the whole thing off as a bad job.

And while you’re at it, make sure the whole world gets a good year, would you?  I know that not everyone made the nice list, but maybe you could just misplace that old naughty list for a little while.  I think you’ll agree, Kris, we’re all due a good one.  My great hope is that on January 20th, we’ll get it.

Thanks, Santa for listening.  I hope you and the missus have a nice bottle of bubbly at the ready.  Find a little leftover mistletoe and have yourself a little bundle of joy on the 1st, along with your blackeyed peas.  But come the 2nd, I hope to notice a difference.

Then you can have a nice, long vacation.  And I promise some spectacular cookies for next December 24th.

Yours truly,

Johnett

Well, first of all, I don’t believe in you. Ever since that Christmas morning in 7^th grade when I woke up and didn’t find a trampoline in the backyard, I’ve known you aren’t legit. And where did you come from, anyway? Who invented you? My hunch is Corporate America (a recent documentary viewing pretty much confirms my suspicions), but even The Big Evil has had more faults then you. How can the greatest country in the world be falling apart while you keep going strong, mocking us all from every store window?

Kids love you, parents lie to their kids, keeping your “legacy” alive, but I lost my Santa bounce that year you forgot my trampoline in your big red bag. Of course, I do wonder if I would still be jumping for joy if I’d gotten it. Would my home look like Santa threw up, with candy canes, gingerbread houses and tiny Santa statues on every empty surface? Instead, I have nothing. And I wonder: What am I scared of? Why do I roll my eyes at holiday decadence and Mall Santa Clauses? Why don’t I care anymore? I know I once had that Christmas Spirit, but if left me when I grew up. When I found out the truth and faced reality it was harsh. My joy diminished and sensibility took over. And all Santa melodies still make me gag.

But what if I could enjoy my white Christmas this year, surrounded by family up at our cabin in the mountains. What if I let down my hair and actually sang along with a few holly jolly songs, enjoying the fire with a nice cup of cocoa (maybe leaving some milk and a few cookies out for good measure). What if I simply stopped fighting anything or anyone, just this holiday season and, trampoline or no, jumped in there and loved someone who might really need it. Giving, that was your theme in the first place. Right, Nick?

Sincerely,

A Hope Recovered

1. Revise/Rewrite an earlier piece of your choosing to share at the next meeting.

2. Write about doing what you love. In preparation, do a few quickwrites (5 min.) about things you have done recently that you truly, deeply, and profoundly enjoyed. What were they? Why did you enjoy them? How did they make you feel before, during, and afterward? When you feel you’ve explored the topic, spend a longer time writing about how you can do more of those pleasurable things. (Paraphrased.)

As I moved my hand to scratch away something odd feeling at my nose, I found I couldn’t move either hand. I felt terrified, was I paralyzed? Why couldn’t I move my own hands? My nose was congested and it felt like there was an object inside it. It felt awful and I wanted to remove it immediately, but couldn’t. It was then I realized my hands were restrained at my sides. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt like I was trying to pry open old paint cans with a toothpick. The effort was futile. My fear was increasing by the second. I began to panic wholeheartly. Why were my eyes not opening when I willed them to do so and my hands not moving with my gallant struggle?

The room was silent except for the sound of a heartbeat; was it my own? My heart began racing to think that I was listening to the sound of my heartbeat. I smelled alcohol and antiseptic, this was a sterile environment. How did I get here? I wanted the comfort of my own bed. The company of my family, but I was here alone and had no one to ask questions about how I had gotten here. My throat ached and my mouth was parched. It felt like I hadn’t had a drink in days. I continued to struggle to open my eyes and little by the lid of the paint can opened a crack and then more and more until I could see around me. Stark light shone in my eyes almost blinding me. I noticed that my hands were indeed tethered to the rails of a bed with straps of cotton binding and were covered with large white mitts that resembled boxing gloves.

I made an effort to lift my head from the pillow to look around the room. It felt as though my head was too heavy to move from the pillow. I moved my body the best I could and found that my legs moved freely. My relief was palpable. I scanned the room to find that two of the walls were covered in glass and the one at my feet had a door in the middle of it. Could I escape through it? If so how could I get out of these bindings? I wanted to leave this room, but as I struggled; first to remove the thing that was stuffing up my nose and scratching my throat, to free my hands, and then sit up and leave this sterile environment my struggle was in vain. I had heard of the fight or flight response in fearful situations and I felt fearful. I wanted to fight against the restraints and take flight from this room. I began to sweat and I could hear my heart beat faster and faster. Questions began to race through my mind. What happened to me? Why was I here in what appeared to be a hospital room? How long had I been here? And did any of my family know I was here?

I needed answers to these questions. I needed to know why I had a heart monitor and a tube in my nose, was I in grave danger of dying? Had I been given up to die? My mind raced and I felt overwhelmed with anxiety. I needed answers and freedom now! I couldn’t wait any longer. I would explode if I didn’t get free soon. I tried talking calmly to myself hoping it could make the situation bearable I chanted over and over in my mind that some one would come in and free me and explain what had happened. I concentrated on calmness and control, trying not to fight the restraint, but to settle into the situation accepting the present and waiting. “Someone will come…Someone will come…Someone will…” I fell asleep.

I awoke startled to the sound of the door opening and the chatter of young men. As I looked up, my son squealed, “Mom, you’re awake! We weren’t sure if you would ever wake up.”

“Boy am I thrilled to see you two wonderful faces! How long have I been here? And why am I here?”, Surprised at the sound of my own voice.

My oldest son explained, “You took a butt-load of meds and almost died, we thought you weren’t gonna make it.”

My shock was overwhelming! I lost five days of my life. How did that happen” I felt ashamed about my actions. I had no real explanation for my 13 and 16 year old sons as I remembered that I had been terribly depressed and had indeed taken a lethal amount of pills.

“Guys, I don’t know how to explain myself.”

“No need to. It’s over now.” my youngest responded.

They both quickly picked up latex gloves and began blowing them up and tying them at the bottom. They began volleying them across the bed over my body and then I realized in earnest no exlanation was necessary. They accepted the situation and were happy I was alive.

It was great seeing you today! Just wanted to post here the prompt ideas I mentioned at the meeting.

1. The prompt from the First Line journal. “While not the intended effect, the outcome was surprisingly satisfying.” These are due Nov. 1.

2. The Story Circle Journal True Words from Real Women. “A Sacred Place” These are due Oct 15.

3. Call into the SCN Podcast listener line with any prompts or any ideas for future episodes or any readings of short poems or stories. The number is Listener Line: (641) 715-3900, ext 19212#.

4. I added a widget (the SCN logo) to our right sidebar that links to the SCN page of blogs. The cool thing about the SCN page that lists blogs is that the top 10 most recent posts from any blog are listed at the top of the page. So when a post is made on our blog, it shows up in the Recent Posts section of the SCN blog page. I got the instructions for adding the link from Becca’s blog.

“What does it mean to go where you’ve never been? Does it mean to go to a new place? Or, to paraphrase Marcel Proust, to see a familiar landscape with new eyes? Write about the experience of going where you’d never been before. What did you see there? How did it make you feel? What did you learn? How were you changed?”

The Nation of the Challenged

Johnett

I’d never been to anywhere in Pennsylvania except for Philadelphia when I was still in high school. But I had agreed to come to State College to do a workshop for a group of deaf education teachers and speech pathologists on literacy. Months ago I agreed to this, having had long discussions by phone and email with the conference coordinator for almost a year regarding their reading research project and how to tailor my training for them. Little did I know when the conference date was finalized months ago, that I would have to have foot surgery about a month before my presentation.

When I finally gave in to the idea of surgery, I was confident that I would be easily up and around. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to stand up throughout all three days of training, but I would surely be good to go. After all, it was to be a “minimally invasive procedure”. Most people are able to begin weight bearing within a couple of weeks and are doing well enough to resume near normal activity in a month. The pamphlet even quoted a gymnast who had the same surgery, saying that she was able to compete again three weeks after the procedure. Competition level? Well, I wasn’t worrying about bouncing around or running races, so boarding an airplane and getting to and from the hotel restaurant shouldn’t present too much difficulty. That’s what I thought, anyway.

The physical journey to and from State College was by far easier than the path from surgery to partial recovery. Dealing with the level of pain I experienced, which was much greater than I expected, was its own devilish trek, and one I really don’t want to revisit at this point. I’ve only recently hobbled past the outskirts of that region and have no desire to turn back or even glimpse it in my rearview mirror.

Aside from the pain, just the effort it took to move my body from chair to restroom to bedroom was enormous. My weighted boot became an albatross around my ankle rather than my neck. I couldn’t bear weight on it at first, so had to hold it up behind me as I hopped everywhere on my walker. My hands became red and sore from the friction created by carrying the bulk of my weight on my palms rather than my feet, developing thick calluses after a week or so. Many times I would stand up to toddle from one room to another and have to look for an intermediate point where I could sit down and rest, not 15 feet from where I started. I would end my journey by collapsing on the toilet seat, shaking, and postponing the inevitable minute when I would have to push myself up again and repeat the process.

Before this experience, I had always taken for granted my body’s ability to keep on going, Energizer Bunny style. I wasn’t very strong or very fast, I knew, but stamina was my long suit. Now, just walking through my house brought me face to face with my limits. I became so frustrated and angry at myself, at my obvious weakness, that I dissolved into tears several times a day. Depression threatened to become not just a bleak side trip, but a permanent destination.

Eventually, of course, I had to leave the house, and when the distance was too far for me to manage on my walker (one horrifically memorable trip to a doctor’s office springs to mind), I had to use a wheelchair. While this made it possible for me to go out and to do things, it still left me dependent on someone else. I could not lift the chair in and out of the trunk. I could not propel myself up most ramps or down long hallways, particularly on carpeted floors. And while Rose, my partner, never complained about the added burden of becoming a reverse rickshaw driver, I constantly worried about taxing her strength as well as her patience. I was certain my less than stellar attitude and behavior made this dependence more difficult for us both, yet I was unable to change it.

After a couple of more weeks the pain in my foot lessened, though it still came and went, like regularly placed billboards on a stretch of highway. I finally gained the strength to actually walk with my walker, distributing my weight more evenly, and lessening the stress on my back and left hip caused by an off-balance gait and the difference in height between my left and right legs. Still, in the grocery store I depended on the electric carts, and knew that when I left for Pennsylvania, I would need to have accessibility to both my wheelchair and my walker.

I really didn’t know what to expect, or how to even begin to prepare. I was suddenly mobility impaired, a disabled person; in the words of Robert Heinlein, “a stranger in a strange land”. I was now a citizen of the nation of “The Challenged”, and I can tell you that the naturalization process leaves something to be desired.

After several searches online, I discovered that I could indeed carry both my walker and my wheelchair as additional personal items without a luggage fee. It was my decision whether to check them at the gate or to check them through, just as you would check luggage. I could indeed be given courtesy service at each airport, having someone meet me with a wheelchair and get me to my destination. However, I didn’t know that there were different levels of service, and I mistakenly requested service for a person needing to be wheeled onboard and to the seat. Luckily the reservation agent caught that error and assigned the right level of assistance: WCHS (wheelchair assistance with stairs or long distances). She also changed my seat assignments to make it easier for me to enter and exit the aircraft. Thus prepared, I thought I was pretty much good to go.

The first glitch came when I was boarding the airplane for the first leg of my trip. I was prepared to use my walker to go down the jetway and to my seat. I should also mention that I had a really heavy bag with my speaker’s notebook for my presentation (about a 5 inch binder) and my computer to carry on. This was my “personal item”. In addition to this I had a small suitcase (with more presentation materials) to go in the overhead bin. I’m sure I was a sight, trying to keep balanced with a heavy bag on my right shoulder (which kept falling down to my elbow), pushing the walker with my right hand, and pulling my little red suitcase, the one that I call my “bad dog” because it doesn’t walk with me correctly, with my left hand. I’ve never walked a jetway that seemed so long before.

When I managed to get to the end, there was a reinforced vinyl “bridge” connecting the plane to the jetway. And try as I might, my walker was too wide to go across it. The stewardess told me I’d need to check it planeside, like a baby stroller. So, while other passengers bumped their way around me, I folded my walker, readjusted, and somehow made my way onboard, nearly falling over backwards when I lifted my book-filled carryon over my head.

I collapsed in the seat. Round one was over. And with the exception of a trip to the lavatory (in the back of the plane) where I felt like an 18-wheeler in the bicycle lane, the rest of the ride to Detroit was okay. And, lo and behold, there was someone up at the top of the jetway to wheel me to my connecting gate.

I did have quite a wait, but that meant time for dinner, and there was a Fuddrucker’s right across from my waiting area. I was in luck. The only problem was what to do with my luggage? I couldn’t carry everything with me, and “airport security measures require that you never leave your baggage unattended”. When I asked the gate agent, he informed me that as an employee he was not allowed to attend someone’s luggage, but that I could ask a fellow passenger to do so. I asked the young man sitting next to me in the lounge if he would do this, and he agreed, although he was not there when I came back.

To his credit, I was away quite awhile. Even though I ordered my veggie burger to go, the teenaged boy who took my order informed me that it would take about ten minutes to prepare. I hoped to sit at a table and wait, but every seat was occupied. I passed the time moving between the trash can and the condiment table, trying to get out of peoples’ way. As a fat person, I’m used to doing this, used to apologizing for being in the way even though there’s nothing I can do about it. (Talk to other fat people. I’m sure you’ll find it’s a common experience.) But when your bulk is increased by an extra foot of space and surrounded with metal poles, it’s an even more uncomfortable experience. Between apologizing, shifting my weight to and from my sore foot, and worrying about my luggage, the ten minutes seemed to drag on for thirty. I was very glad to hobble back to my gate area, balancing a clamshell container, plastic utensils, and a cup of soda in one hand while I maneuvered the walker with the other.

The next plane, the one that would deliver me to State College, was even smaller – a turbo-prop. We had to gate check even the carry-ons that we had stowed in overhead bins. But the bigger surprise came when we landed, and the stewardess lowered a set of stairs down to the tarmac. “I didn’t realize we would have to deplane down these steps”, I said. She informed me that there was a push up ramp “somewhere out there”, but I’d have to wait for all of the other passengers to depart, and then they’d locate it and push it up to the plane. “It’s not a problem,” she said, several times. But, being that it was already past 11:00 p.m., it was a problem for me. I decided to try the stairs, which I made only because a baggage attendant came up and took my huge shoulder bag so I could grip both handrails. Each stair was much larger than a normal step, and the thick fog made the surfaces fairly slippery. But I figured that I could always sit and go down on my butt. It would be embarrassing, sure, but less so than a broken neck.

An off-duty airport employee wheeled me into the terminal with me holding on to two bags and a walker. I had arranged for the hotel to send their shuttle for me. The driver, I was told, would meet me at the baggage claim area. In State College, this meant at the curb, where waiting passengers descended on the luggage carts like sharks on fresh chum. Fortunately, the shuttle driver was very helpful and kind, and soon we were on our way to the historic inn on Penn State’s campus, not too far away.

A few days before I had called the hotel and asked if they had any accessible rooms available. I was told that they would check, but that they were on a first-come-first-served basis. And since I was there for a low incidence disabilities conference, well, I didn’t hold out too much hope. Luckily, I was wrong, and my room was equipped with larger doors, and an open shower with a built-in shower seat. Or, as the desk clerk informed me, I could wheel my chair right in and shower in it.

Room 1045 was on the first floor (there are only three floors in the inn), but the serpentine route to my room seemed to stretch on like an airport runway. Wheeling through the blue carpet felt like swimming through grass, and pretty soon I gave up and walked behind my wheelchair the rest of the way. (A process I repeated multiple times over the following days.)

As for the rest of the trip, things were pretty good. It took me much longer to get to and from one place to the next. I had to plan trips to the restroom in advance. Eating from the hotel’s buffet required either a helper to serve and carry my plate (which I didn’t like), or one trip to scope out the fare and a second quicker trip (just hobbling in my boot) after I parked my wheelchair at a table. As for presenting to a room full of people for three days, they were a very forgiving audience. I sat in my chair most of the time, but made my way around the room during small group activities, and sometimes just when my back and hips couldn’t take sitting any longer. The days were long and tiring, but the workshop went well, and was very well-received. In the end I was very glad that I kept my commitment to go.

What about the trip back? There were more glitches, of course. The airline didn’t check my wheelchair through, but at planeside. There was bad weather on the first leg back, of course on the turbo-prop, which didn’t make things any better. I wanted to get to the lavatory, but couldn’t risk trying to walk all the way back. And we were delayed getting in to Detroit, so I barely made it to my connecting flight before they boarded. Finally, when I arrived in Austin, the wheelchair escort didn’t show, and I was so tired that I piled everything on the chair and walked from gate 2 to 10 and down to the baggage claim. When Rose came in I kissed her quickly and “ran” to the ladies’ room. And getting back to the car was tricky as well, since there wasn’t a Sky Cap to be found anywhere.

But I was home, thank Goddess. Home. And even though I’m still learning my way around this strange land of which I’ve become a short-term citizen, home is still the sweetest place to be.

I’ve been going where I’ve never been my whole life. My dad takes me there. Every other Sunday afternoon, I drink my milkshake in the passenger seat of his little Nissan truck-the direct result of his oil company going bust-where he pumps me full of sugar and dreams before delivering me back to Mom’s house. The smell of leather seats from his recently repossessed red Corvette is still fresh in my mind, making it easier to go along with Dad’s extravagant ideas. Sweat builds under my thighs as Dad captivates my impressionable eyes with his every word.

“I’m workin’ on a plan, Hot Shot,” says Dad, a man who built his life on dreams that came tumbling down within a decade of crossing those unforgiving railroad tracks. “I’m thinkin’ this deal’s gonna go through and if so, I’m going to buy you and your step-mom matching yellow Mustang convertibles!” His chest puffs up proudly. “Every girl’s dream car, right?”

“I guess,” I say, squeaking my candy-stripped straw up and down through the plastic lid, searching for the last few clumps of settled sugar and chocolate. I’ve never gotten too excited about cars and was always embarrassed to ride in his flashy Corvette, preferring the Suburban instead, a bittersweet reminder of when he and Mom were still married. And yellow, that would be my absolute last pick for a color. Yet I hop behind the wheel and settle into the cushiony black leather, deciding that just maybe a yellow Mustang convertible isn’t so bad after all. I’m an eleven year old flying down Ocean Drive, top down, hair blowing gracefully in the fresh sea air, until Dad draws me back into the musty heat of his Nissan cab.

“And if things go the way I think they will, I’m taking you snow skiing for Christmas,” Dad says- he never pulls me back to reality without a game plan to take me somewhere grander. He searches for my approval out of the corner of his eye. If the car bit didn’t get me, he knows skiing will.

Dad talks up snow, which I’ve never seen, and we hit the slopes. I dig my hands into snow for the first time and hop on the ski lift, soaring up through the pine trees. I fly down steep ski runs and we eek our way down the mountain at dusk in an exhausted line of skiers who were equally as eager for the thrill on the drive up this morning. I stare into my father’s fiery eyes. The Rocky Mountains shoot up behind him as the aroma of fine coffee beans swirl around the ski lodge where we sit, sipping our Ghirardelli hot chocolate, a lift ticket dangling from my puffy Oshman’s jacket. I swing my frozen double-socked feet, listening to Dad tell me tales of the mountains he and Mom skied before I was born.

And then we’re back. Mom’s house. I look over at Dad before hoping out of the Nissan and our Colorado adventure. “Oh, Daddy, I hope that deal goes through,” I say, a death grip on my Styrofoam cup. “Will you call me right after you know?”

His chest deflates a bit, but he keeps his chin high. “Sure, toots.”

Every year, Christmas comes but the ski trip doesn’t and I have yet to drive a Mustang. But I was there. I cut down the steepest mogul-filled slopes in the sharpest looking ski suit, the envy of my fellow hot chocolate connoisseurs at the ski lodge during mid-afternoon defrost sessions. And I was marveled at in my flashy yellow Mustang, hair blowing back gracefully, then rearranging perfectly upon arrival.

Those moments, and thousands like them, were real. The imaginary jaunts I took with Dad far outdid what the real thing could offer. Because in reality I would have snowplowed down the bunny slopes in a hand-me-down bib with mismatching jacket and surely my fine hair would have tangled in the wind, disheveled from rolled down windows, the direct result of no a/c. But this is what Dad could offer me. His years of high rolling created shoes he still cannot fill, though he wants to and even dreams might be able to some day.

So when Dad promised to take me to Europe after I graduated from college, I ran with it, knowing it would be our last imaginary trip together. We went to the Eiffel Tower and Venice and saw the Basilica. And we never left the cab of his roughly idling Nissan truck.