Crossing the Bar
I used to go to Europe a lot.
When I was in college, I lived in Ealing, London, for a semester and went to Ealing College. Then, after college, I lived in Paris for six months; I studied in the south of France; and then, as a high school teacher, I used to take students over each summer for weeklong trips.
So I went to Europe about ten times in ten years. And each time I went, my mom would drive me to the airport. Even after I was married, she still took me. She loves airplanes, and we like spending time together.
Growing up, we lived in the flight path to the airport in Milwaukee—Mitchell Field, as it was called in those days. Every time my mom heard an airplane coming, she would run outside and look up and go, “Oaahhhhh!” Our dog Lady used to run out there with her. In fact, Lady would hear the airplanes first, run to the back door—she knew how to jump up on it and let herself out—so she would be outside before my mom was. But she would just bark a few times, run over to the rhubarb patch, and take a pee. That’s dogs for you. They can’t appreciate airplanes.
So, for old time’s sake, my mom offered to drive me to the airport for my 40th birthday trip to France. For old time’s sake—and because with five kids under ten, any family trip is about as easy as moving a Rolling Stones tour from one city to the next.
My mom is all plugged into the spirit world. She is so tuned in that it can make you crazy watching her feel everything out and always let the Spirit lead her. She’s pretty often right, though. Sometimes, as I watch her, I get the impression that “letting the Spirit lead” might be as simple as always putting the other person first. She has a heart like an elephant.
On the way to the airport she wanted to stop at Apple Holler, this little restaurant between Milwaukee and Chicago. You know how you get nervous before a big trip like this? I was nervous. I didn’t want to try to find this little restaurant; I just wanted to get to O’Hare. Now it was starting to rain, and we didn’t seem to be making much headway. I must admit, at one point, I looked over and thought, Wow, she’s getting old. What’s she got, the ol’ cruise control set at 45 mph? Maybe I should have taken an airport limo. And now it’s going to rain. It looks like it’s going to pour!
“Thanks for driving me, Mom,” I said, to combat all my doubts. “You’re doing great.”
“So far,” she sang back. Now, that doesn’t engender a ton of confidence.
“Your father told me which exit to get off for Apple Holler. I think it’s the next one.”
We ended up getting off at one exit, and it was the wrong one. So we drove up and down the frontage road, got back on, got off at the next exit, then back on again. Finally we spotted the restaurant from the expressway, got off once more, and had to make an illegal U-turn at the bottom of the ramp to get back to it, just as the rain started.
I was trying to stay calm, but you know how it is, getting ready to leave your family to go skulk around in a monastery in Europe, with this kind of crazy lady leading you on a wild-goose chase while time is ticking. You have to get to the airport three hours early because the threat level has been raised to Orange after they foiled a terrorist plot in London, and you’re thinking, Why am I even doing this?
We got there, and the parking lot was just a big dirt patch. The place looked like the original Jed Clampett homestead—a big renovated barn. I was wearing a crisp white TravelSmith oxford shirt with a navy blazer and slacks. I was going to fit right in.
We got inside and were seated. Before I sat down, I headed for the bathroom. I paused for a moment to decide between the doors marked “Hens” and “Roosters.” I thought I’d figured it out, but I verified my choice the way all men do—by looking for the urinal as soon as I got inside.
There were newspapers covering the wall. One was a ten-year-old story from the local paper about their hundred-year-old tractor getting struck by lightning. I actually read the story. I like old stuff.
When I got back to the table, I looked out the window and it was pouring. It was coming down in buckets. I said to the waitress, “Wow, it’s really coming down.”
“I’ve never seen it go up,” she replied.
As we ate, I kept looking out the window, trying not to fret, but getting more nervous as I pictured my poor mom—or me—driving in that monsoon. Of course, it stopped raining as soon as we were done eating. The parking lot was a mess, but we picked our way through the rivulets and mud, and by the time we got back on the expressway the sun was shining.
See what I mean? You can’t tell me missing the storm was a coincidence. This woman is dialed in. She follows the Spirit, and the Spirit takes care of her.
When we got to the airport, there was this huge line for Air France. I wasn’t even sure where the line ended. It stretched way beyond the cordons and dissolved into a crowd of people. There my mom did it again. She wandered into line right behind a woman who would make my stay in Paris even more delightful than it otherwise would have been.
The woman was a lot like my mom. Same age, I guessed, but smaller. She had two huge—and I mean huge—bags. I figured she was waiting for someone to help her, but every time the line moved, she’d drag one forward, then go back for the other. Finally I offered to help with one. I pack pretty light, so I didn’t have much to inch forward.
When I introduced myself, I pointed to my mom and said, “And this is my wife, Carole.”
She smiled. “Hi, I’m Nancy Mechiah.”
“Mechiah?” I repeated, because I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.
“Yes,” she said. “It means Messiah in Hebrew.”
Wow. That was kind of cool. No coincidences, I was thinking.
Then I realized what I’d said. “Oh, did I say, ‘This is my wife’? I meant my mother. This is my mother.”
Boy, Freud would have a field day with that one. It doesn’t help that my wife and mother are both named Carole Giersch, both spelling Carole with an “e.” In fact, both were named after Carole Lombard, Clark Gable’s wife, who spelled it that way.
Do I sometimes mix up the words mother and wife? You bet. I’m sure all men do. In fact, every husband is glad when his first child learns to talk because he can finally let an occasional “Mom” slip when addressing his wife without having to explain himself. That’s now her official title. She doesn’t need to know about that little confusion that goes on in his mind. Some things are better left unsaid.
Nancy and I fell into conversation. She lived in Paris and worked in the travel business, though she was an American who had lived all over the world. Then, as we entered the cordons, my mom took her leave. I gave her a kiss and suddenly felt like a little kid again. I said goodbye and turned back to Nancy, but as Nancy went to weigh her luggage, I remembered my mom had just walked away. I turned to see her face in the crowd like a white petal on a wet black bough.
Then I turned back to Nancy. My trip had officially begun. All vestiges of home were gone, and I was embarked.
This is from Chapter Four of my book, Talking of Michelangelo.