A Final Road Trip

At age 55, my mother was soon to marry a man more than 20 years her junior, and the age difference was only one reason why he seemed as unlikely a mate as anyone could have imagined for her. Mom is college educated, a voracious reader, and big-city urbane. Her husband-to-be never got past sixth grade, cannot read or write, and is red-neck rural. Yet when they somehow fell in love, my mother never looked back: it was pedal to the metal all the way. She was zooming along Route 55.

One thing Mom and her new love had very much in common was wanderlust. The two of them were always getting in the car and disappearing for days, just driving wherever fancy dictated. They especially loved to get lost and did so on purpose if it didn't happen by itself. Mom said that was how to make the most delightful surprise discoveries. She could read a map if they had one, and her husband had the excellent memory of an illiterate if they didn't, so finding the way back home was never a worry.

Being behind the wheel also used to be my mother's favorite stress relief; when troubles weighed heavy, she was likely to get out on the open road and head somewhere to clear her mind. So when she recently announced an intention to drive nearly 1,000 miles alone, I suspected that she was upset about something. Her stated reason for the trip was the failing health of her 89 year old brother, her only surviving sibling. She felt time was running short for them to see one another again. What hung unspoken between us was our mutual knowledge that her health is as precarious as his, if not more so. Whose remaining time was she really worried about?

Mom's driving ability these days is impaired by poor eyesight and lack of stamina. Mostly she restricts herself to daytime driving on familiar local streets, while her husband handles the occasional long distance driving they still do. 2,000 miles round trip by herself? I have an idea, I said; why didn't I come along to do the driving? Absolutely not, she replied. This was a drive she wanted to make alone, she would not be dissuaded, and how dare I denigrate her driving skills? (Yes, she really uses words like "denigrate"). She may be old, but she wasn't dead yet, Mom declared, and she would do what she wanted while she still could!

And so she did. First she drove the 600 miles to my house, which exhausted her so much that she slept most of the following four days. Energy somewhat restored, she left for her brother's on a Sunday and was to return home eight days later. Throughout that time, I diligently practiced the fine art of denial: Mom driving hundreds of miles in the congested Northeast? Not gonna think about it. Record-breaking rains and flash floods along her route home? Not gonna think about that, either. Just gonna wait for the home-safe call she promised to make.

When the phone finally rang with my mother's home number displayed on the Phone ID screen, I let out the breath I'd been holding for a week. How was your trip? I asked, silently praising the heavens for getting her home safely. Those were the last words I uttered for the next 20 minutes, as my mother poured out an emotional story of her visit, including repeated vows to never again hazard the New Jersey Turnpike. I listened, and after we hung up, I wrote this poem about what she told me.


THE FINAL ROAD TRIP

I had to come, though everyone said
"You're too old to drive" and "stay home instead."
I'm sure they meant well; still, I gave 'em the slip,
and I headed north on another road trip.

Though I'm over eighty, the road's kind to me.
I know how to take it where I have to be.
I paused when I needed to eat or to sleep,
then kept heading north on another road trip.

In just a few days, I made it to you,
exactly as I had promised to do.
When you clasped my hands in your shaky grip,
I knew I'd been right to risk this road trip.

You barely can hear and hardly can walk!
Be that as it may, we still managed to talk
and laugh over how we've lost most of the zip
that used to propel us on many a trip.

I had to come to you, as both of us know,
for soon you'll be travelling where I cannot go.
And although I left with a smile on my lips,
I guess we've both taken our final road trips.

It Runs In the Family

Route 55 takes me by my mother's home much more often than my previous path did. For most of my adult life, it has always taken serious advance planning to swerve out of the fast lane for a rushed 600 mile detour to the farm in Tennessee where she lives.

About 35 years ago, Mom and Dad dismayed the entire family by abruptly leaving the city where they'd raised most of us five children for someplace we'd never even heard of in southern Appalachia. We were incredulous when one day they simply announced the purchase of a 30-acre farm. What a shock to find they had this secret plan! It sure knocked the assumption that our parents would grow old right there, close to all of us, all out of whack.

A farm????? With horses, cows, and other barnyard animals, we were told. This information baffled us further, since both our parents were born and bred in Long Island, NY. Not a single word of interest or yearning for bucolic bliss had any of us ever heard. Had they been watching too many episodes of Green Acres? My dad was no Eddie Albert, and Mom was sure no Eva Gabor.

We could not understand, either, why they bought a place some hour's drive away from our mother's new job in Chattanooga. She was always exhausted as it was from her present job only 15 minutes from home. All that extra driving wouldn't improve matters, especially since we all figured she'd do most of the farm chores, too. Our father did not lift a finger around the house, and we were betting that he wouldn't do much around a farm either. We couldn't even imagine him coming near a cow, much less milking or feeding or cleaning up after farm animals.

It was all a mystery to us. Yet within a month, our parents had packed up their clothes and books, put my mother's enormous white German shepherd in the car, and moved. This was in 1971 -- the year, I now realize with a jolt of comprehension, that my father turned 55.

The Verdict on Lay

Mailed from somewhere on Route 55:

Dear Judge,

A jury has found Ken Lay, former CEO of Enron, guilty of fraud, insider trading, conspiracy, and other serious charges brought against him by the U.S. government.

No sympathy here. I think Lay bears responsibility not only for America's biggest corporate pileup since 1929 but also for many thousands of devastating individual career crashes. Sure, Lay didn't personally eliminate all our jobs, but the events leading to our plight can be traced back to him and Enron. And we'd like some justice.

I especially speak for those abruptly shuttled onto what I call "Route 55" -- not a road gladly travelled by midlife professionals. Companies put you on it when earnings pressure and bad PR send them looking for expenses to cut. By now it's no secret that employees anywhere near 55 are prime targets. They may pretty it up with an "early retirement" label, but it's still an involuntary layoff.

Not surprisingly, I turned 55 just one week before I was bumped off the fast lane and onto the rough pavement I now travel. There's quite a traffic jam here, by the way. People are upset and milling about, some crawling along in a glum daze, some stuck on the shoulder with overheated radiators or empty gas tanks, some trapped in SUVs full of shouting, unhappy family members. The kids are whining and the old folks are querulous. They're getting hungry and a little frightened by traveling on a strange road with no idea where they are headed.

It will take years to unknot this mess, Your Honor, and I hope you will take Ken Lay to account for helping create it. Some people say it's only the system to blame, but I say that what hit us had Lay's license plate number all over it! Consider the factors leading to my own small incident.

THE ENRON PILE-UP: Ken Lay drives Enron into disaster. Thousands of employees, debtors, and shareholders hit the wall right behind it.

THE ANDERSEN WRECK: The government and SEC pursue Enron's auditors, Arthur Andersen, until they crash and burn too.

THE MOVING VIOLATIONS: My company's new replacement auditors swiftly cry foul on certain accounting procedures which Andersen had blessed.

THE EXECUTIVE CONVICTIONS: Most of our senior executives are found guilty of Driving Under the Influence (of Andersen) and fired. Several are sued.

THE EMERGENCY TECHNICIANS: We recruite a new executive team who promptly begin classic corporate triage treatment: downsizing, cost cutting, and outsourcing.

THE TOW TRUCKS: A chain of career rear-end collisions rapidly develops at my firm. It takes a few months, but eventually: Crash!! And then I'm towed away to Route 55.

Judge, this is why it seems to me that the loss of my job, my bosses' jobs, our auditors' jobs, and a legion of Enron employees' jobs all lead back to Ken Lay. And I can call on any number of others sitting in this traffic jam to roll down their windows and testify too if you want.

Not necessary, you say? Then as you prepare to sentence Mr. Lay, we hope you will fully consider the enormity of personal and property damages resulting from his actions. And if you change your mind anytime between now and your September sentencing deadline, you know where to find us: blinking with uncertainty, here on Route 55.

A Reluctant Traveller

Statistics tell us that 76 million Baby Boomers in America are presently between the ages of 42 and 60. If you accept age 50 as the general point of entry into "midlife", and if you also accept that Americans tend to be phobic about aging, then we're already knee-deep in 50-somethings. Thousands more join the throng every day. Some quickly notice they've entered a different life route; others take a year or two, or even much more, to realize. But by their mid-fifties, nearly all have figured out that they are on what I call Route 55.

I know this because a few months ago it dawned on me that I'm there right now. I'm probably still in some stage of denial about being here. I'm still wondering why I couldn't just stay on the major expressway I've ridden for so many years, where I knew about the potholes and obstructions and how to endure the traffic clogs and snarls that seemed more frequent the further I went.

I had a mishap or two on that highway, back when I was new to the fast lane and didn't know how to spot trouble before I ran right into it. Nothing really serious; just enough to keep me a little wary. But it had been a long time since I'd had even a close call, much less an incident. I had come to believe it was a pretty sure thing that I'd reach my intended destination with no problems. I thought I had it all mapped out, and my route sure didn't involve any slow-poke road like this.

Yet here I am. Not many people like this road at first, maybe because it feels so strange to realize you're on it, and also because the way you get there can be quite painful. I didn't pay much mind to the few detour signs warning about this byway. Maybe if I had, I could have found a way to stay on the big lanes. But now I guess I'll need a new map: reluctant or no, it looks like I'm cruising Route 55.