The Kitchen Table
This chapter has little to do with Land Cruisers in general or Uncle Meldon's 40 in particular. It has everything to do with the journey. Feel free to skip if you're expecting tech, drama, or humor. There's none of that here. This one is personal.
My Mom died last Summer, 3 weeks shy of her 91st birthday. I was in Oklahoma City when she passed. I'd been there several weeks, camping in my parents spare bedroom, muddling through rebuilding my wrecked 40. Two weeks after I arrived, my Mom was hospitalized; she'd fallen and broken her left hip and right arm. At her age, I think we all knew she wouldn't recover. After a week in the hospital, her doctor recommended moving her into a hospice. He said they'd be able to make her more comfortable than a conventional hospital. Every day I'd rise early and do something to the truck, often nothing more than swapping out a couple of rusty bolts. Something to clear my head before going to the hospice. When I'd enter my Mom's room it was always the same. I'd ask how she felt. She was in obvious pain but she'd answer that she was fine, just fine. She didn't want anyone worrying about her. Then she'd ask about my family, Erin in Frisco, Clay in Nanaimo, and the grand kids, and always she'd ask about progress on the Old Rustbucket. She called it my "little red truck." She'd ridden in it, seen it after the wreck, watched me agonize over its resurrection, shared my woes as all Moms do. She knew about me and old Land Cruisers. On the Friday she passed, she thanked me for coming, for being a good son, said she'd enjoyed the visit, closed her eyes, and slipped away. She was one of those special people you don't forget, and she belongs in this story.
Following my trooper encounter outside Jacksboro, the remaining 200 miles to Oklahoma City are uneventful. Bucolic countryside, clear blue skies, and virtually no traffic. If you love the open road and wide open spaces, it doesn't get any better than this. In Bowie I change my road music to Robert Earl Keen and turn North onto US 81, I cross the Texas-Oklahoma state line at the Red River bridge, and drive on through Waurika, Comanche, Duncan, and Chickasha. Just south of El Reno I dogleg East on the Mother Road, US Route 66. Passing through Yukon, I'm on the home stretch, only 15 miles to go, but the timing is off. Way off. My parents eat supper at 4PM sharp. They're more punctual than the atomic clock, and I'd timed my Austin departure accordingly. I wanted to be there in time to wash up and enjoy a great home cooked meal without disrupting their schedule. After meeting Ken and Barbie in Stephenville, and chatting up the troopers, I'll be late by almost two hours.
I pull into my parent's driveway at dusk, porch light is on, and there's my Mom at the living room window peering out, just as I knew she'd be. Even though I'd called ahead with a revised ETA, she'd probably been standing there the entire two hours. We hug, and she says that I look too thin. I'm not even close to being thin, but she'd still say that if I weighed 300 pounds. It's a Mom thing. She says I should eat now, while the food is hot. I follow the aromas into the kitchen; they're familiar and comforting, scents I've known since childhood. Her cooking is legendary. In high school, my friends would often happen by just before supper time, knowing if they hung around long enough she'd invite them to pull up a chair. This annoyed my Dad, but not her; everyone was welcome at her table. She's slowed down with age, but hasn't lost her touch. The table is set but it's obvious no one has eaten. On the counter I see a big baked chicken, a pan of cornbread dressing, homemade mashed potatoes, a green bean casserole, and a fresh fruit salad. Cooling on a trivet is one of my Mom's home made pecan pies. No fast food in her kitchen. It's all made-from-scratch Southern comfort food. Labor intensive dishes. Enough food for 10 people. No sign of my Dad. I search, and find him in his TV room, perched in his recliner watching the news, wearing a dour expression. He is not pleased.
Dad: "Nice of you to drop by." (delivered with sarcasm)
Me: "Thanks. Why haven't you eaten?"
Dad: "Your mother said we couldn't eat until you arrived. It's your special meal."
Me: "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Dad: "It took her two days to prepare that meal. And you can't even show up on time."
Awkward silence
Dad: "Forget it. Let's eat."
We eat, and of course it's fabulous. I have seconds. I may have had thirds. My Dad is silent while my Mom peppers me with questions about the trip. What Western states will you cross? Tell me about the Land Cruiser you're driving? Can I have a ride before you leave? What friends will you see along the way? Will you finally get to meet Yooper's brother? And on it goes. She's as interested in this adventure as she was my elementary school field trips. 50 years, nothing changes. My Dad retires to his TV. He's still peeved at my tardy arrival, and he likes to end the day with Letterman's monologue. Creature of habit.
My Mom and I stay up well past midnight, sitting at the kitchen table, talking like never before. I tell her about the ambitious young couple at the Hard 8, and her eyes twinkle. She says "I remember being like that, feeling that way. Feeling like there's nothing you can't do." We talk about the Land Cruiser family. I call it my extended family. Some would laugh, but she thinks it's a great thing. She says it reminds her of the way things used to be, people helping their friends. People helping people because it's the right thing to do. People caring. And we talk about life. She gets it. I hope I'm finally getting it.
My Mom lived for six more years after I returned from Hawaii. There would be other Land Cruiser road trips, other home cooked meals, other conversations, but none like this. When I think of the beginnings of that epic trip, the trip I'm writing about now, it wasn't in Austin. It was that night in 2005, sitting at the kitchen table, talking into the wee hours, talking about old Land Cruisers, and life's lessons, with my Mom.
My wife and I had If I Needed You played live for our wedding song. It was/is our song....sniff...
and
,Ben
