Tommy sleeps through the night

I’m on the living room couch watching the numbers on the DVR’s digital clock. It's 3:30 in the morning, and I'm praying Tommy doesn't wake up before his alarm, like he did yesterday.

It was 3:45 a.m. when he hustled out of bed and started pulling on his jeans. (This is a typical wake up time for me, so I wasn't angry, just scared.)

"Honey, it's 3:45 in the morning," I told my husband. I pulled his elbow and tried to stop him from putting his belt through the loop.

Tommy pulled away and moved to lace his tennis shoes. He didn't rebut because he can’t speak. Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD) and Primary Progressive Aphasia (PPA)-- disorders affecting the brain’s language center -- started robbing him of his speech in 2009, and like one of the "Ps" says, it's Progressive. So, over the years, there's been less and less talk, and now we're left with bits of common language from our 14 year marriage. And if we're lucky, a written note.

At least he’s safe in bed, I tell myself.

At least he’s no longer driving.

It was my neighbor across the street who called to tell me Tommy had sideswiped another car and drove off. I was waiting for this kind of call for I worried every time he got in his car. If he was late coming home from the Y, or from his golf date, I’d pace in front of the window until I saw his Honda Accord pull into the driveway.

“You have to take away the keys before he kills someone,” my daughter said when I told her of the latest incident. "You'll never forgive yourself."

So, neighbors Holly and John sat on the couch with me to tell Tommy it was no longer safe for him to drive. When he refused to give me his car keys, I said, "John will remove the battery." I got that line from one of his neurologists.

"We've got lots of kids in the neighborhood," Holly said. "You can't be driving."

"No," Tommy said. "Golf, the Y." He could get those words out.

"I'll take you," I said. "Anywhere you want to go." I do.

Yesterday, when Tommy woke at 3:45 a.m., I followed him downstairs to the living room. He settled on the couch and turned on the remote. He wrote on a Post-it, "Rock."

Aha! Tommy thought he had been taking his afternoon nap and it was time to get up and watch one of his favorite TV shows, "The Rockford Files." When I opened the curtains to show him it was still dark outside, when I went through the MeTV listings to show him there was no Rockford, when I pointed to the a.m. on the TV screen's time, he clicked the remote and went back upstairs to bed.

This morning it appears he is sleeping through.

Hole in the Head

"Cute bag," I said to Faith as she swung a messenger bag over her head. The bag bore a charming cityscape design in blue and black; my favorite colors.

"You gave it to me, Mommy," she said. She placed the bag across her body and I watched as it settled at just the right place, easily accessible by a hand reaching for a wallet.

"I did?" I starred at the perfect Timbuk2 bag that would go beautifully with everything in my wardrobe (black t-shirts, blue jeans). Suddenly, I felt as conflicted as a woman who had given up her child for adoption. How could I have let my baby go? But, my dear daughter has it now. Obviously, she cares for it and has given it a good home.


I must've bequeathed it in a weak moment, realizing I already had dozens of backpacks and messenger bags piled up on a closet shelf. And Faith likely had been carrying a purse of her own, one with an opening easily pick-pocketed. Surely, it was a sense of motherly protection that prompted my handing over such an outstanding bag.

Afterward, while still longing for that-which-was-given-away, I pondered my difficulty with relinquishing things. I wouldn't call myself a hoarder; after all, there are no piles of newspapers blocking doorways, or mason jars stacked along basement stairs. But, truth be told (And where else but on a blog could one have a chance to use that phrase?), I do possess a number of collections that cause me to question my state of mind.


I think I'll blame its beginning on my other child, Jill, for it was she who thought it would be good for her mother to start a collection of salt and pepper shakers. Heaven knows why she came to this conclusion; perhaps it was a dark, cold, Chicago February and she worried her mother might launch one of her typical ban-the-blues enterprises.

"Look, Mommy," she had said as she handed me a box. A lift of the lid revealed a dozen pair of miniature people, animals, and objects, all with one or several holes in their heads. "When you're bored [who, me?]," she said, "you can go antique shopping and add more to your collection."

I was delighted. Tasks, goals, what could be better? Carefully, I lined up the Noah's Ark along window sills. Then, I added "scour shops for s&ps" to my To-Do List. For a few Sundays, I performed as a true collector, walked carefully among dusty do-dads (tchotchkes really, but you know me and alliteration), holding my bulky tote at my side to avoid breakage, and selected pairs of s&ps to join the others.

This worked well until the day I realized that dusting every little hand, foot, hat, basket, and whatever of that crew would add hours to my day. Without notifying my well-meaning child, I returned every last one to their original nesting place and stored it on a basement shelf. Of course, I couldn't donate or regift my collection for Jill might label me ungrateful and avoid future presents. So in their box they remain.


Sadly, it didn't stop with the salt-and-pepper shakers. Other hard-to-part-with collections stuff shelves: water bottles, pens, notebooks, sunglasses, knitted caps, and jackets. Each stockpile begins the same way: I seek something that will be perfect for task at hand. A water bottle that can easily be opened with thumb and finger, a pen that smoothly glides across the page, a spiral notebook that opens and lies flat, sunglasses that protect my eyes but make me look movie star-ish, a cap that does not reduce my head to bowling ball appearance, and a jacket perfect for every seasonal temperature.


Soon, each of the above loses its luster. It misrepresented itself. It was clumsy, leaked, bled through, or made me look funny. Into a bin the original goes. Then comes the delightful search and purchase of its replacement, and replacement, and replacement. Somehow, I cannot toss the early ones away. I worry they might wind up in a landfill (even though I couldn't identify or locate one in my neighborhood.) I fear that if I pass it on to someone else, they might not care for it as I believe it deserves. And, in the case of my Timbuk2 bag (just to remind you how all of this started and to bring a satisfying full circle ending), would I regret giving away something that was so perfect for me?

You see my dilemma. Instead of putting myself through all of that angst, I've obviously decided to just hang onto the items purchased. Except of course for that messenger bag that my first born wheedled away from her vulnerable mother. Perhaps I can persuade her to swap it for a different one in my collection? Maybe this one, its blue and black, but lacks a space for a water bottle. Think Faith would go for that?

Come Fly With Me, Or Not

When the 23-year-old terrorist attempted to bring down a passenger jet Christmas Day, he not only shook up the airline industry, but also turned this 71-year-old occasional flyer into a suspect. Because of his deed, airport security now scan passengers' behavior for clues. Those who nervously glance about, or repeatedly open and close their bags are targets for investigation. That’s me!


It's not fear of flying that causes my fidgetiness. Au contraire, once I’m on board and the plane takes off, I’m as relaxed as if I were sunning at the shore. It’s the lead-up to lift off that drives me (and truth be told, all of my loved ones) nutty, and produces the eccentric behavior likely to flag security’s attention.


Prior to Departure Day; I leisurely pack. By leisurely, I mean a week before. The suitcase is in the spare room, open on the bed, and each day I deposit some article of clothing that may or may not make it to final latching. With this leisurely method, and deaf to the derision of my husband who throws things into his suitcase the night before, my luggage is sealed and standing at the front door before the sun rises on D Day.

To further lessen anxiety, I insist on printing out my boarding pass as soon as the clock strikes the allowable time. At home, I make sure my printer is on, a full stack of plain white paper is in the feed, and there is nothing to interrupt the procedure.

If I am out-of-town, and you can confirm this with either of my daughters, I start plaguing them as soon as they have their coffee. “Is the printer on?” I will ask as if I were waiting for my drug fix. “Yes, Mommy,” they will answer, in a voice similar to the one used for their offspring. There have been times when leery of their equipment, I insist on stopping at a Kinko’s to get the job done. (I have already printed out the locations of all Kinko’s in a five-block area.)


When I travel with my husband, we discuss the time we'll leave the house on departure day. This is an amusing exercise as both of us know that no matter the time agreed upon, I'll be sitting at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in my coat, and hand atop the luggage handle 30 minutes before.


I prefer to arrive at the gate a full hour before departure, and seated with my Starbucks coffee and the New York Times. Instead of reading, though, I’m behaving in the exact mode on the terrorist watch list. I frequently rise to check the board that identifies our gate. Sure, it said C12 when we arrived, but perhaps it’s been changed now and we’ll have to make a mad dash to the new gate.

Although I’ve packed my tote with enough snacks, cords, and meds to accommodate an unexpected delay, I’ll unzip and search every 15 minutes to be sure I didn’t just imagine adding Aleve to the pill case.

And once the plane begins boarding, although I may be in Group 4 and they are just on First Class, I rise, pace, and get in the back of the line of Group 3. Husband, of course, prefers to wait until 4 is called, which causes us to separate and meet up in the crowded airplane aisle where I await his hoisting. (My carry-on, not me.)


One may wonder why I continue to fly if the trips cause so much anxiety. But because my daughters have elected to live on either side of the U.S. (Boston and Los Angeles), and if I want to see my grandchildren before they bear children of their own, it’s essential I endure. So if airport security seeks a target for this flyer’s suspicious behavior, you know whom to finger.

What, Me Worry?

I’m declaring today National Free From Worry Day (NFFWD). Thanks to me, you can go about your business without thinking of the hundreds of things that nag. Hang on a sec; I hear sirens. Oh wait, just remembered my daughters live out of town, so there’s no worry the ambulances or fire trucks are headed their way.


Now, where was I? Seems my memory is getting a bit foggy as I age. Like an overstretched rubber band, it pulls far out, but doesn’t snap back as it used to. But today is NFFWD, so no more worries about my brain.


Before that siren interrupted me…Wait, perhaps I should go to the window to make sure it’s not a fire truck screaming down our street. All is okay. Let’s see, I was talking about my daughters, and that reminds me of the time when they did live home and were old enough to drive and be out late. While hubby snored peacefully at my side, I, on the other hand, would lie awake with my ears perked like an on-edge animal. Not until I heard a key in the lock, did my ears and racing heart rate shrink.


Now that they are adults, with families of their own, my worry level on their behalf has significantly decreased. Except of course when it snows in Boston (Faith),


have tremors in L.A. (Jill), or any of my grandchildren spike a fever above normal.


Lest you think I’m obsessive only about my offspring, there are other things I worry about. The mail looms large. I’m convinced our USPS carrier lugs an overdue bill in her sack. The letter will be all caps and warns our electricity, cable, gas, or phone service will be cut unless the missing funds are supplied immediately. Of course, these bills are in error, but that doesn’t stop the sweat simmering on my brow, and that racing heart I described earlier.


E-mail used to induce shakes similar to those spurred by snail mail. I’d worry, is this message legit or phishing? But since I signed on with WeGotYourBack.com, a site based in Nigeria that guarantees I will never be the victim of a scam, I can rest easy. You might want to enroll as well. All you have to do is provide your social security number, your mother’s maiden name, your date of birth, and you’re in.


I have one more worry you might think silly, but bear with me. (I’ve awarding you this worry-free day, so the least you could do is hang on a bit.) I’m afraid my iPhone will die. You see, in the early days of the device, it took many trips to the Apple store and phone calls to a tech to unfreeze it. All of the phone’s info is stored on my Mac, so there's really no need to worry. But still…


Someone wise once said, “99% of the things we worry about never happen, so relax." Sounds sensible, right? But what if this maven wasn’t wise after all, just delusional or condescending?

That worries me.

Hunting Down and Suiting Up

When most people embark on a new exercise routine, they look forward to fitting into smaller size clothing, having more energy, and winning kudos from friends. For me, it’s in the hunting down and suiting up.


Recently, after joining a fitness center and enrolling in yoga and Pilates classes, as well as weight lifting and aerobics sessions, I decided research into each activity was the first order of business. Books had to be bought, and CDs, DVDS, and web sites reviewed. While that investigation delayed my actual performing of the exercises, I deemed the preparation essential.

After my initial fieldwork, my appetite for additional knowledge was stoked. Now, I wanted to know more about the derivation of each exercise. Oh, you may think I didn’t need to learn yoga’s origins in India, or read the biography of Joseph Pilates who invented his physical fitness system in early 20th century Germany. But curiosity and enlightenment should never be squelched. Should they?


Maybe the background on Dr. Kenneth H. Cooper, former Air Force Colonel from Oklahoma who authored the 1968 book “Aerobics,” which emphasized a point system for improving the cardiovascular system, was too much information.


And on second thought, the story of Eugen Sandow from Prussia, who first promoted bodybuilding, was overkill. However, bibliography did heighten excitement and anticipation.


Thus armed, it was time to select new wardrobes for my four workouts. Naturally, I couldn’t be expected to wear stretched and out-of-fashion shorts and tank tops squished in a corner of my dresser drawer. And my running shoes – a misnomer I admit –were several years old and painfully devoid of support. Some $140 later, I felt quite the jock trotting the shop floors of Fleet Street.


As for yoga, entire industries now focus on clothing for poses that were once performed in simple muslin. Obviously, I had to purchase pants and tops that would allow freedom of movement, yet hug the body. There was also a cunning invention called the “shelf bra” --tank top and bra in one garment, but alas, I could barely pull that shelf over my head, let alone cover the products they were intended to support.


While I was aware my fitness center possessed yoga mats, blocks, and straps, I thought it wise to purchase my own equipment. True, big box stores carry these items, but since I would also be reaping Eastern wisdom and a certain amount of soul stuff, it just didn’t seem right to go cheap. How can one put a price on serenity? (Actually, I could: a tad over $200.)

Lest you think that the inventory of instructions and clothing from previous exercises; i.e. tennis, swimming, spinning, and kickboxing, that are gathering dust on closet shelves (and smirks from family and friends) would dissuade me from my current fitness pursuit, you’re mistaken.


Soon enough, when I feel properly informed and suited up to Downward Dog, tighten my core, pep my step, or hoist a barbell, I’ll begin.


Until then, please keep your mouth shut and avoid rolling your eyes.

My Bad

This isn’t easy to admit, but there are several activities I currently engage in where I am, well, bad. Not fair, mediocre, or C+; just bad. And yet, I soldier on.


One would think if a student sat in class after class of Spanish language, and was still unable to dialogue in a tense other than first, she'd throw up her hands, and declare, Adios. Pero, no. This mujer continues to listen to Coffee Break Spanish podcasts on her iPhone, click on the Spanish Anywhere app in her downtime, and embarrass her only children by attempting conversations with any Latina(o) who crosses their path.


For this inability to speak and understand the Spanish language, I blame my parents. Yiddish! Such was the language of the ghetto I grew up in in the 1940s. Ver can that take me, I ask you? On top of that, the Division Street I knew back then is now Paseo Boricua, where Spanish is the native tongue. I would've been so ready if Min and Irv had a bissel foresight.

While we’re blaming the parents (oh, come on, hop aboard), let’s point fingers at them for my dismal renditions on the piano. Over the years, I’ve tortured a variety of teachers. Some have encouraged me to keep count with a metronome. Others suggested scales. And some benevolent souls have allowed me to skip Beethoven and go straight to Rogers and Hart. And yet, close your ears.


Would it have been so terrible to place a piano in our little flat above the store? Not a grand, of course, but a spinet. Instead of Mom’s Singer Sewing Machine in a corner of the kitchen, we could’ve had a sweet little Wurlitzer. So, we’d be a little tight. And Mom would’ve had to hem my skirts by hand. But at least today I’d be popular at parties. “Elaine, come play us a tune,” I’d hear. Instead of, “No, sweetheart,” as the host clamps the keyboard’s lid on my stunted fingers.


Don’t get me started on swimming. My father, built like a wrestler, boasted he swam laps at the Division Street YMCA, “the very same one that Johnny Weissmuller -- you know, Tarzan -- swam at.” If that’s the case, why couldn’t Dad have taught his only daughter how to freestyle? Why did she have to feign her monthly period throughout high school to avoid the natatorium?

Oh, I’ve tried. Don’t think I haven’t tried. Just ask Pat or C.K. at the YMCA, or former swim team captains who teach at health clubs. They’ll remember me, no doubt. “Oh yes, that little lady who can’t swim without fins. The one who won’t go in the deep end?”

But, after much prodding and encouraging from C.K., I did jump into 8’ (Or was it 12’? It doesn’t matter. When you’re sub-five-feet, anything over that is the deep end.) My goal was to rise to the surface --please God-- then tread water. After much flapping of arms, I did rise, but immediately flopped to a back float and peddled to the shallow end.


I’ll share one last Bad. Why in the world did I – who has a thin, wavery voice -- sign up for Vocal classes at Old Town School of Folk Music, I’ll never know. Wait, I do know. While laboring through Rogers and Hart on the piano, I decided it would be fun to sing along. Fancying myself a lounge singer, I envisioned Elaine at the piano, notes of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” in my singular voice accompanying herself.


Can we once again turn to Min and Irv, keepers of my childhood? Did we even have a record player? We were poor, remember? Lived in those three cramped rooms above our failing grocery store. A radio, yes; but a victrola? Okay, let’s say we did have one. Do you know what would likely be spinning? Famous Jewish cantors. Try and sing along with those guys.


Perhaps I should lay off blaming my folks before my own children pick up the habit and decide Mother is the cause of any of their failings. But, Jill speaks Spanish, Faith sings and plays the piano, both swim. What could they possibly fault me for?

Not to worry; they'll come up with something.

Of Summers Past

Pack up! Come with us on trips to Fire Island, Hemingway Country, and Route 66. Along with my essay, "Am I Blah Blah?", guest bloggers Frances O'Cherony Archer and Elizabeth Liwazer share their adventures in "Looking for Hemingway," and "An Easy Ride."

Am I Blah Blah?
by Elaine Soloway


“Am I female?” I asked my ex-husband.

“Yes,” he said.

I turned to my current husband. “Am I a movie star?”

“No.”

I took a moment to ponder their responses. I was seated on a couch in the Fire Island beach house my daughter Jill rented in August of 2007. Along with her dad (my ex), my second husband, and me, Jill invited a dozen other relatives to share her vacation time. Since we all got along, there was no fear of unpleasantries interrupting the holiday.

Like everyone else, I wore a melon-colored post-it note, with a name written on it, stuck to my forehead. We were playing the parlor game, “Am I Blah-blah?” and had to guess the identity of the person on our post-its.


Stalling for time before my next question, I studied the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the beach. Rain had been falling steadily since our arrival and the shore was deserted save for a few people hunting for seashells and driftwood. The water rose in high waves, raced across the sand, then grabbed scoops as it slithered back into the ocean.

I was ready for another stab. “Am I a politician?” I asked Jill.

“Yes,” she said.

“Hillary Clinton?” My daughter nodded and I leapt from my seat. I ripped the post-it from my forehead and shouted, “Yes!” Then I sat down, crossed my arms and tried to focus on the next player.

But my mind was as busy as the sea. Who had suggested Hillary Clinton? Was it one of my husbands? The one who, after 30 years of marriage, left me for another woman? Or the one who relinquished longtime bachelorhood and was adjusting to the constraints of wedlock? Did either of them see a trait Mrs. Clinton and I shared?

Instead of returning to the game, I replayed a scene in my head that might provide clues. The previous morning, my husbands and I were seated at the local diner when the conversation somehow veered to my shortcomings. “She’s so controlling,” one said. “Absolutely,” agreed his mate.

“Controlling?” I shouted. “Where would you be without my organizing, my bookkeeping, my taking care of things?” I hurled the question at both of them. They looked startled, for outbursts like this one were rare.

I started to cry. Number two put a hand on my shoulder. Number one attempted, "we didn't mean to…." I dabbed at my eyes with a table napkin. "We appreciate you," they agreed. "Sorry we upset you."

Not wanting to spoil the vacation, and admitting to myself I could be considered, well, controlling, I forgave them both and started eating.

“Am I an athlete?” Husband number one’s question dragged me back to the game.

“No,” another player answered.

The post-it on my ex’s forehead read Luciano Pavarotti. But if I had had the chance to edit the name, I'd pencil in, Benedict Arnold. And for husband number two? Brutus? Et tu?

Looking for Hemingway
By Frances O’Cherony Archer


In the summer of ’76 I sublet an apartment in Evanston, turned 20 and fell in love. When we weren’t at our summer jobs, John and I read books, listened to music, swam in the lake after dark, and rode long distances on our ten-speed bikes. Radio stations constantly played “If You Leave Me Now” and by the end of July we dreaded hearing the song: in the fall John was going away to grad school. To distract ourselves from the impending separation, we decided to take a road trip to Horton Bay, Michigan, the town where Ernest Hemingway spent childhood summers and the setting for some of his Nick Adams stories. We were English majors and had many favorite books, but we idolized Hemingway because he was, like us, from Chicago and he wrote about the outdoors and because we were still hoping for lives as adventurous as his.

Although it was an ambitious journey, a seven-hour drive from Chicago, our preparations didn’t go beyond studying my high school copy of "In Our Time" as though it were a road map. We borrowed my father’s 1971 banana yellow Chevy Malibu convertible, a muscle car that screamed summer adventure but was, we thought, a little loud for a literary expedition.

On Highway 31, opposite the turnoff for Horton Bay, there was a dirt road. We took it, thinking we might find traces of an abandoned lumber mill, Indian camp, or other landmarks from Hemingway’s stories. The road was narrow and bumpy and overgrown with weeds and shrubs. As the waters of Little Traverse Bay shimmered into view, we heard an explosion and felt the car sink. I had driven over a half-buried cement boat launch and blown a rear tire.


We walked for about an hour under a cloudless sky toward Petoskey until we found a gas station. The attendant laughed at our story, then said the earliest he could tow the car was the following morning and it would cost fifty dollars. With leftover funds we bought food and supplies: cans of franks and beans, chips, a quart of beer, water, a box of Pop Tarts, bug spray and a flashlight.

In the late afternoon we walked along a railroad track looking for the swampy spot where Nick Adams lands after getting thrown off the train in “The Battler.” Towns mentioned in the story—Walton Junction, Kalkaska, Mancelona—were miles away but we thought we’d find something. Before dark we gathered branches and twigs and built a campfire on the rocky shore, a fire big enough to last until daylight. We stayed up all night, half hoping and half afraid a hobo with a scarred face, like Ad Francis in Hemingway’s story, would emerge from the woods.

After the car was repaired, we drove back to the road we should have taken, the one leading to Horton Bay. The only traces of Hemingway we found were a few old photographs mounted on the walls of the Horton Bay General Store. We weren’t disappointed, though. Marooned overnight in the wrong place, we had glimpsed the scrubby, hard-luck landscape of the Nick Adams stories.

An Easy Ride
By Elizabeth Liwazer

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.
Mark Twain

“Remember the Route 66 trip I told you about?” Cindy asked.

“Sure,” I nodded, sipping my hot tea during our monthly dinners together. It was January and the only thing that warmed me on another freezing evening.

“My sister isn’t coming after all…do you want to go?” she asked.


Ever since I saw Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda straddle their bikes in "Easy Rider," I’ve wanted to head west from the Midwest on the iconic American open road. Now, the summer before 9/11, I had my chance. I could dump the job I hated and take off in the Honda. But, instead of a Honda motorcycle, we loaded her four-door Honda Civic with a refrigerator and Bud, a smiling bobble-headed porcelain doll we won at a friend’s bowling party.

In preparation, we highlighted our maps and atlas and toasted each other Thelma and Louise-style while watching that movie, and reread our high school copies of "The Grapes of Wrath" because John Steinbeck’s Joad family sets out for California on Route 66. We planned our course, certain to get our kicks in every place the song mentioned. From downtown Chicago, we would drive from Springfield, Illinois, through Joplin, Missouri across the state line to Oklahoma City, where we would remember a different set of victims from a local radical at the Federal Building.

Ours was a carefree attitude traveling cross-country, in the last innocent days before we understood that we, too, are vulnerable to attacks by international forces. "The Bad Girl’s Guide" to the Open Road, was invaluable to our 2,077 mile road-tripping adventure to the Pacific Ocean and we read it from cover to cover, taking note of wanderlust wisdom like other helpful uses for condoms such as snakebite tourniquet or ponytail holder and how to get out of speeding tickets. Our most difficult decisions were which diner to have lunch or what motel might be cleaner on the nights we weren’t staying in our friends’ guest rooms.

From Amarillo, Texas, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, we headed for Winslow, Arizona, taking little Bud’s picture at every tourist attraction, laughing harder and harder as we waited for Asian and European travelers to move aside so we could strategically place him beside the sites. At the Grand Canyon, we stood in awe, holding Bud, who posed happily for pictures to fill our albums. We followed step after breathtaking step on the path taken by millions of others toward the stunning sunset, never once mentioning that we missed the office.


Driving up Highway One, where Bud, with his painted-on grin, was as excited as we were to have his picture taken at the Brady Bunch house, we took the northern route back home. Our high spirits were beginning to wilt at the prospect of returning to real life until we hit South Dakota and a flock of Hondas and Harley Davidsons cluttered the expressway. Our paths intersected with those headed for Sturgis, the Mecca for motorcycle enthusiasts and the people who sleep with them.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Cindy asked. She shook Bud until his bobble head was nodding at such a frenzied pace that it threatened to catapult through the windshield.

Had our Route 66 trip been planned after 9/11, our whole experience would have been very different. Instead, we gave each other the thumbs up Thelma and Louise-style, and joined our Honda with all the others.

(The people in the photos are: Jill, Elaine, and Faith Soloway in the first story; and Elizabeth and Cindy in the last story.)