To best understand the happenings on this leg of my trip to Fredericksburg for the Marine Corps Half Marathon, one needs to have a deeper understanding of my parents' marriage.
As we have discussed, my parents talk about two things and two things only: gas prices and their cat. This has not changed with the recent demise of said cat.
Don't worry. We'll be covering that later.
Anyway, this can be frustrating - my father will have no knowledge of birthday parties, say, or new jobs - unless you yourself tell him. My mother will not breathe a word.
Conversely, my mom will never know that you're having breakfast with my dad this Thursday, for example, or that she needs to bring her latest Mary Higgins Clark to church for you to borrow.
Now, she and my dad will swear up and down that they gave the other your information, but the other will swear just as vehemently that they didn't.
And the proof, really, is in my mom's own statement: they only discuss gas prices and the cat. That leaves no room for book requests or party plans.
Why. Why does their conversation center only on those two topics? Because whenever they venture beyond fuel and felines, their conversation is a round table discussion - round in the sense that the dialogue only goes in repetitive concentric circles. No end. Same ground covered. Into all eternity.
You need an example, you say? No problem.
My siblings and I were teens when my parents took us to Center City for some forgotten event. After, we went to an upscale restaurant for dessert. My mom's dessert arrived with a delectable garnish of berries.
Cautiously prodding the berries with her fork, my mom wondered aloud - to my dad - what kind of berries graced her plate.
A quick glance told my dad they were blackberries, information he shared with my mom.
But my mom disagreed. She pointed out that they were far too big to be blackberries.
Nonplussed, my dad continued eating his dessert.
But my mom peered curiously at my dad. And then she said it: Since they were too big to be blackberries, what kind of berry were they?
"Blackberries," my dad said, as if my mom had asked the question for the very first time.
Perturbed, my mom sighed. She had no faith in my dad's knowledge on the subject. They were too big to be blackberries, she repeated.
"OK," my dad said. His fork never broke stride. He never paused. He just kept eating his dessert.
But my mom sat with her dessert in front of her, untouched. "Then what kind of berries are they?" she asked again.
"Blackberries," my dad shrugged.
But like the biblical Peter, my mom held fast to her denial. These berries were too big to be blackberries. She'd never seen berries like this before. Certainly not blackberries of this magnitude.
"OK," my dad said, his dessert nearly done.
Well, my mom sighed, then what kind of berries were they?
"Blackberries," my dad said, uaing his napkin to dab the corners of his mouth.
"No," my mom said, "these can't be blackberries. They're too big."
"OK," my dad said, sipping his beer.
"Then what," my mom asked pointedly, "kind of berries are they?"
And round and round they went, like some kind of Bizarro discussion between Arthur and his knights.
| Me and my brother making a whirlpool. Probably inspired by one of my parents' discussions. |
I have seen conversations of this ilk between my parents often enough to know that my parents are made for each other. I think most people would be frustrated by my mom's persistence. Not my dad. He loves my mom's tenacity. It saved her life. I mean, what else kept her going last fall if not the tantalizing possibility that recovery meant possibly finding out what kind of damn berries were on her dessert plate in 1989?
So when we settled into the car to start our drive to Fredericksburg, my mom looked at my dad and asked what route would be best for our sojourn.
This was a logical question, put to the right person. My dad drove buses for Greyhound. As such, my dad can give you directions to anywhere you need to go in the continental United States. Now, these directions will be on the order of "take I-63 south or east, whichever way it goes" or "turn left at the blue house that belonged to my customer in 1982". His directions also encompass multiple routes for you to select from, but rest assured. If you pick Route B, take I-63 south or east, and turn left at his customer's garish house, you will, in fact, reach your destination. He's like a highly interactive Garmin.
So my dad gave us his route, which most certainly avoided any and all contact with I-95. My dad's feelings about I-95 are akin to Son's feelings about soap - never to be used unless you are being bodily forced.
| Catching my own ride, guys. |
Nope, my mom said, plugging his route into her GPS. Using I-95 would get us to Fredericksburg in just over 3 hours. My dad's route would take five. Like the berries, my mom had no faith in my dad's knowledge.
But, my dad argued, Beltway traffic could have us sitting for hours, which could make our journey just as long as my dad's route. May as well take his route and keep moving instead of risking idleness on I-95.
Nope, my mom said. Three hours vs. five hours was a no-brainer. She wanted I-95.
"OK," my dad said. And proceeded to give me directions that A) did not encompass I-95 B) consisted of multiple routes for me to choose from and C) directed me to take routes 50, 270, and 301 south or east. Except 270, which I should take west for a bit before going south.
"Wait," my mom bellowed. Recalling my blogs on Hurricane Irene and my birthday - in which I detailed her directionally challenged geography - my mom eagerly pointed out that Virginia was not to our west.
"Yep," my dad said. And repeated his directions that A) did not encompass I-95 B) consisted of multiple routes for me to choose from and C) directed me to take routes 50, 270, and 301 south or east. Except 270, which I should take west for a bit before going south.
"So are we taking I-95?" my mom asked.
"No," my dad replied. He told my mom our route A) did not encompass I-95 B) consisted of multiple routes and C) used routes 50, 270, and 301. South or east. Except 270, which we would take west for a bit before going south.
"But I want to take I-95," my mom said.
"OK," my dad replied.
"So are we taking I-95?" my mom asked.
"No," my dad said. Our route, he said A) did not encompass I-95 B) consisted of multiple routes for us to choose from and C) used routes 50, 270, and 301. South or east. Except 270, which we would take west for a bit before going south.
I think you know what my mom said next.
And for six hours - we did, in fact, hit traffic on my dad's route, and my parents and I all have bladders the size of a Dixie cup - my parents argued about our route. Each time we hit traffic, my dad altered our route, still avoiding I-95. And each time, my mom reiterated her desire to get onto I-95. If we're going to sit in traffic anyway, we may as well get on I-95. I-95 would be just as fast, if not faster. I-95 is a well known route to Fredericksburg. Surely our salvation lies in I-95.
| The St. Louis Arch, Hoover Dam, and possibly the Grand Canyon. See how scenic the non-I-95 route to Virginia can be?! |
They broke this Ferris wheel of a discussion for three topics.
Topic One: Gas prices. Several hours into our ride, we decided to stop for gas and facilities. I hastily made the decision to use a rest stop we were approaching because I was afraid we'd hit traffic before I could unload my Starbucks in the Oval Office, if you take my meaning. Sadly, the gas here was $2.32 a gallon. This was not an acceptable price, but my parents consented to the fill-up anyway.
As we continued our progression down non-I-95, my dad noticed - a few miles later - a Wawa that was selling gas for $2.13. My mom, in turn, was dismayed at our haste in settling for the rest stop price.
Forty-five minutes later, my dad saw another gas station. "$1.94," he pointed out.
"You're killing me," my mom groaned.
"$1.92," my dad noted later.
"Are you trying to get me angry?" my mom cried.
This cataloging of gas prices dotted the fight about I-95 like pepperoni on a pizza - for our entire trip to Fredericksburg. A curious offshoot of this conversation was the documentation that went with each visit to the gas station. My parents always get a receipt and document on this receipt the mileage the car was on at the time of the fill up. I didn't ask why. Maybe one day I'll be casting about for blog material. That's when I'll ask.
Topic Two: My parents' cat. Lightning has been dead for about two months now. But along our odyssey I was treated to a story about how that very morning, Lightning had saved my mom's life. It seemed my mom had misplaced her daily buttered toast. While attempting to locate her plate of carbs, she tripped. She would have crashed to the floor, but a belonging of Lightning's was strategically placed. She caught herself on it, thus breaking her fall.
Lightning, the posthumous life saving feline.
I mean, I get credit for nothing. And deservedly so, probably. My advice would have been to, I don't know, THROW OUT THE DEAD CAT'S BELONGINGS?!
She also explained that she and my dad, in the wake of Lightning's passing into the ether, still talk about him. But now their conversation centers on TV cats, and how similar or dissimilar Lightning is to the televised cat.
That's almost as sad as Hodor. Or the Banshee series finale.
Topic Three: this blog. At the pinnacle of the I-95 fight, my parents stopped dead, mid-sentence. They turned from each other and looked at me. My mom sighed with dismay. She sounded like a child who knew they'd been caught in a lie.
"This is going in your blog, isn't it?"
Indeed, it is. As long as my parents are kicking, I'll have blog material. I can't speak for them, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Who needs boring parents?
Maybe Husband and I should be more like them. I mean, I turned out OK. And it will give my kids plenty to write about someday.
