On the Right Side of a Dream
Table of Contents
This book is dedicated to
all of the “Juanitas” of the world—
don’t be afraid to take the first step.
There are years that ask questions and
there are years that answer.
—ZORA NEALE HURSTON
When you set out on your journey to
Ithaca, pray that the road is long, full of
adventure, full of knowledge . . .
—CONSTANTINE P. CAVAFY
Acknowledgments
This book was fun to write. Juanita took me on another journey of the body and spirit. I had a great time. Many thanks are due to the people who added so much to the experience.
Thank you to Dr. R. Earl Bartley for lending his medical expertise to me for a little while. Thanks, Earl! I also extend my thanks to Chefs John Kinsella, James Myatt, and Jeffrey Shelton and to the staff of the Cincinnati State Technical and Community College, Culinary Arts division. I spent the better part of a summer “in school” and have a great appreciation and respect for the hard work, tenacity, and artistry of chefs. My sincere thanks to the students of Chef Kinsella’s cooking class and Chef Myatt’s baking class of the summer 2003 session. Their patience, sense of humor, and dedication made my experience worthwhile. Any errors, omissions, or weird flights of fancy relating to the information provided by my “experts” are entirely my fault.
Thank you, Lori Bryant Woolridge, for lending me your support and enthusiasm. Special thanks to Lynn Hightower for your guidance and sense of humor—I appreciate it more than you know.
As always, I want to thank my family for their love and support: my sister, Claire Williams, my brother-in-law, Derrick Morrison, my wonderful children, Bethany and Kevin Smith, and my husband, Bruce Smith.
This book could not have been written without the love and encouragement of my mother, Myrtle Jones Humphrey, who passed away on April 3, 2004. While her passing has often left me without words during this past year, the light of her adventurous spirit shines through this story, and through my life.
Chapter One
A
wise woman said that there are years that ask questions and there are years that answer. For a long time, I was a sorry soul caught between the two—never going forward and afraid to look back. Wedged in between a rock and a boulder and going nowhere. That’s a waste of a life and you don’t get it back. But, I’m a slow learner so none of this wisdom penetrated my hard head until I was past forty. By then, the years of questions had added up. And I didn’t have any answers. All I had was a beat-up suitcase, a tired-looking shoulder bag, and a few pennies. And the courage it took to listen to my own heart when it told me to take the first step, even though I was scared to death.
I ran away from home. Did not stroll, skip, or saunter. I ran as fast as I could. In my journal, I wrote that I was running away from my old life. But I was really running away from
no
life.
Now, my family was not having any of this running away stuff. You see, they’d been so used to me being a part of
their
dramas that it never occurred to them that
I
might want a drama of my own. And not the bad kind, either.
“What’s wrong with you, Juanita?” my sister asked me. “Have you lost your mind?”
My son, Randy, asked me, “Are you ever coming back?”
My kids acted as if I was leaving them to starve to death even though they were grown and living life
their
way on
my
dollar and
my
emotions. I had to fight them to get out the front door. The second-shift supervisor at the hospital where I worked could hardly keep her no-lips from curling up into a Snidely Whiplash smirk.
“Don’t think you can get this position back when you run out of money,” she’d told me. “In this economy, I can fill your job with the snap of a finger.” When she said that, it was my turn to smirk. Exactly
when
did a nurse’s aide job become a “position”?
The man in the bus station looked at me funny when I told him I was going to Montana to see what was there. He probably thought that I was an early release from a mental hospital. But the little man at the pawn shop hit the nail on the head.
“New life?” he’d asked, handing me the receipt for the suitcases I had just bought. “Where’s that?”
I left to find out.
Some months later, I left Paper Moon, Montana. It was a rainy fall morning and I sat in the cab of Peaches Bradshaw’s truck, crying my eyes out because I was leaving a man who loved me and folks who thought I walked on water and didn’t cook too bad, either. But I wasn’t running away this time. Oh, I still carried a suitcase, a tote bag, and a purse without much money in it. But for this trip, I had something else along that I hadn’t had before. I had a life. And I wore it proudly like a woman wears a big pink hat to church on Easter Sunday.
“I’ll keep your side of the bed warm,” Jess had told me when we’d said our good-byes in the early morning. Those were the only words I needed to hear. What can you say to a man who’ll do that for you? All I could do was bury myself in his arms. If you are loved, it’s enough by itself.
Millie Tilson, Paper Moon’s resident eccentric, glamour girl, and innkeeper, had given me the benefit of her advice and many years of life. However many that was.
“Ohhh, I wish that I could go with you, but the Doc and I are headed to Vegas in a few weeks and we’re taking tango lessons. Did I tell you that?”
“The Doc” was Millie’s “boy toy,” Dr. Angus Hessenauer, a seventy-something retired internist who’d grown up in Lake County, made good in Boulder, and was now back to renovate and live on the old family homestead. Their relationship (Millie said it was an “affair,”
not
a relationship. “Relationships are what people have with their bankers nowadays.”) was the talk of the town. No one knew exactly how old Millie
was
but everyone was in agreement that she was at least ten years older than Doc Hessenauer. Maybe more.
“Yes, you told me that,” I said, watching as she unpacked a UPS box. It was her latest order from Victoria’s Secret, a lacy little number in red and a few other very small pieces that could loosely be called “clothing.” That’s all I’m going to say about that.
“Oh, well,” Millie sighed as she checked over the invoice with the focus of a C.P.A. “Be sure to go places that you’ve never been before. That’s when you have the best adventures.”
I laughed. That would be easy.
“Millie, I haven’t been
anywhere
before!”
Her dark-blue eyes twinkled with mischief and wisdom.
“Then you’re going to have a marvelous time, aren’t you?”
I was. Everything would be new to me, every sight, every smell. But would it be “marvelous” as she said? Or, would “marvelous” have to share a space with “boring” or “sad” or “awful”?
“Sometimes, it all comes together, Juanita,” Millie reminded me. “It’s what you do with it. That’s what matters.”
She was right.
A long time ago, it seems a hundred years ago now, on the bus trip from Ohio, I’d made a list of the places that I wanted to go in my life. A wish list. Looked them up on a map, circled them with a highlighter: Los Angeles, the Yucatán, Jupiter, Tahiti, Cairo, Buenos Aires, Ursa Major, Beijing, and Auckland. I had bright orange lines crisscrossing the atlas. When I showed the list to Peaches, she laughed.
“Juanita, I don’t think the Purple Passion will make it across the Pacific. Flotation is not a strong suit of the Kenworth,” she’d told me, referring to her bright purple truck cab. “Beijing! Tahiti! I can see you now in a hula skirt!”
I could see me, too. It was a comical sight.
“Can’t help you with Jupiter. You’ll need an engine bigger than mine for that.”
“Oh, that’s OK,” I said. Jupiter was just a silly thought that popped into my head. If you’re going to make a wish list, make it good. You never know.
“Would you settle for Los Angeles? Or the Grand Canyon? And I think I might be able to manage Denver, although I don’t usually pull the eastern jaunts. Stacy does those.”
Stacy was Peaches’s partner both professionally and personally: a tall, skinny thing with the vocabulary of a truck driver (which she was) and the heart of a poet. She got weepy over
Sonnets from the Portuguese.
Peaches grinned. “ ’Course, in a few months, I’ll be heading to San Diego. How about going south into Mexico? Stacy could fly down and meet us if she doesn’t have a run. I have a taste for some real tequila and a few days on the beach,” Peaches commented with a sigh. I knew that thoughts of limes and frosted margarita glasses danced around inside her head.
“It’s a deal,” I’d agreed.
The plan was to head west through Idaho and Oregon, then south into California on I-5. Peaches had a delivery in Redding, then planned to take a detour so that I could see the ocean.
But it rained a lot that fall. And plans are meant to be changed.
“Any other time, I’d say we were lucky to have rain,” Peaches yelled over the roar of the huge engine, Bonnie Raitt’s deep, bluesy voice, and the swooshing sound of the windshield wipers that reminded me of the eyelashes of a giant giraffe. “It could be snow. Shoot, this is October, it
should
be snow!” she commented, squinting as she tried to see through the sheets of water that poured over the window. “This rain is not a good thing.”
She was right. It got so bad that she pulled off the road a couple of times because she couldn’t see. The storms rolled in from Idaho as they liked to do but instead of moving on and moving out, they brought relatives with them. The sky went dark in the late morning and stayed that way for the rest of the day so that you couldn’t tell when day turned to night. Got so I expected to see Noah and his boat floating by any minute.
We got used to seeing orange cones and the flashing lights of emergency cruisers. State troopers stood in the middle of the highway directing traffic around fender benders, mud, and rock slides. It was slow going and hard on Peaches. She looked exhausted. And the three mammoth-sized cups of coffee that she’d had weren’t any help.
“I hope you don’t have any business appointments tomorrow morning,” Peaches said, a weary smile lighting up her face.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I’ll just have my secretary reschedule,” I told her. “I wish I could help you drive, though. Make this trip easier.” I’d asked her once to teach me to drive the Purple Passion and she let me work through the gears. That was a chore. There’s a lot to it. You can’t get it in a one-hour lesson. Making turns, parking, backing up, just putting on the brakes (at seventy miles per hour) with thousands of pounds behind you took some doing.
She snorted and shook her head. She’d taken off her baseball cap and her long, sun-streaked blonde hair fell down her shoulders.
“Don’t worry ’bout it. Hell, I’ve been driving this route by my lonesome for years. It’s a treat just to have a real person to talk to. Half the time, I’m talking to myself. You know how strange
that
looks?”
The gears complained as Peaches moved through them. A trail of red brake lights wound down the highway, breaking through the soupy view of the window, flickering like Christmas-tree bulbs. The rain was getting worse. It was beyond raining cats and dogs; this was like raining cows and horses. I couldn’t see a thing and didn’t know how Peaches managed. The truck came to a groaning stop. Through the drippiness, a man ran down the center of the highway between the lines of stopped cars and trucks. He waved at the pickup in front of us then headed toward the Purple Passion, motioning for Peaches to roll down the window. His jacket was soaked and the rain dripped off the bill of what used to be a green John Deere baseball cap.
“What’s going on?” Peaches yelled. “Accident?” Words were used with a lot of economy.
“Mud slide, road’s closed,” he yelled back, his eyes blinking to beat back the raindrops that were blowing in sideways. “They’re going to detour to a county highway running southwest. It winds a bit but y’oughta get to the redwoods before your kid goes to college. Have to sit on it awhile, though. They’re just gettin’ started.” He ran off to the FedEx truck in the next lane.
“I guess that’s it. You will be late for that business meeting, Mrs. Louis,” Peaches said, yawning, as she rolled up the window. She leaned into her seat and closed her eyes for a moment to take a catnap.
Later, when the truck began to move again, I studied the rain, the direction that the wind was blowing, and the huge rock-and-mud concoction that had spilled across the highway. I thought about the change of seasons in Montana, where summers are short and winter seems to last forever, or so they tell me. The land is so wide, so open that, even with the mountain ranges, you can see the weather coming from way off. I remember standing on the back porch of the diner with my hand to my forehead like a sentinel, watching a thunderstorm roll in across the Bitterroot and thinking to myself how beautiful it was. The skies turned from blue to milky gray, then to a silvery slate shade. A giant hand had plated the bowl of the horizon with pewter. I used to keep Jess’s dog, Dracula, inside if it got too hot in August, listened to the weather on the radio just to keep up with the temperature. Sometimes, I planned out what I would cook at the diner where I worked based on the weather. If it rained and got a little cool, I put together a soup; if it was as hot as the Sahara, I whipped up cool salads and fruit. In between, I did whatever made me feel good.
I hadn’t done that before I came out west, hadn’t paid attention to the weather. Never even noticed it. If it rained or if it didn’t, none of that ever mattered before I came to Paper Moon. When I worked at the hospital back in Columbus, I carried around a cheap fold-up umbrella (that I’d fixed with masking tape every time it blew inside out) in my tote bag, along with my lunch every day, whether it was hot or not, whether it snowed, whether it didn’t.
I wasn’t rooted to anything but asphalt and concrete. And buildings don’t reflect the season’s changes. Or a life’s changes, for that matter. No way a paved parking lot tells you spring is around the corner or that it’s going to rain. I am now a woman of the earth, a weather vane.
I sniff the air for rain, listen to the birds, and check the western skies for clouds. I grab a handful of dirt to feel how dry it is. I can fix the time of the sunset just by its color. And when the wind blows, I play a game with myself: Where is it coming from? How does it smell? Dust from Texas, magnolia from Alabama, corn from Indiana, pine from British Columbia.
It’s hard to believe now that I lived my life in such a way that I never noticed the rain. And I didn’t notice the sunshine much either. Barely noticed the seasons at all, as if I was immune to rain or shine. Now, that is pitiful. I shook off the memory of that poor woman, closed my eyes, and listened to the swish-swish of the windshield wipers.
Rain has two effects on me; it either makes me sleepy or makes me want to go to the bathroom. Since there weren’t any rest stops in sight and running into a flash flood to pee didn’t appeal to me, I took a nap. I have learned to sleep sitting up with the roar of the Purple Passion’s engines as background music for my dreams. It is a funny combination. In my dreams, I might be running through a meadow filled with wildflowers. But, instead of the smoky molasses smoothness of Roberta Flack’s voice or the gentle sliding sounds of violins, I hear the drone of a truck’s engine or the scraping sound of the shifting gears to go along with the blue skies, gold, red, and purple flowers, and gentle breezes. Oh, well. You have to make do with what you have.
I have a few ideas in my head about what I want to do next, where I want to go. A few ideas, not just one, so when folks ask me, “What you doing next, Juanita?” I sound like an idiot when I answer, “Oh, I don’t know, a lot of things.” Anything I haven’t done, which is just about everything.
Jess and I liked to talk early in the morning, way before the birds got up. In the cool darkness, we would wrap around each other like two hands clasped in prayer and talk and argue and laugh at bad jokes until one of us would fall asleep again, usually me. And Jess would ask, “What you gonna do for an encore, Juanita? Is there a sequel to this great adventure?”