On Being a Writer

Writers live in the wilderness of their own minds, a world where the thickets of words becomes the most delightful entanglement of all existence. They walk for hours past streams and brooks turning over ideas that others hurriedly pass. The world out here stands as Pompeii with its shadows and ashes, but, the world within a writer peels away a delicate warm truth; writers were born to brush the soul’s heart with the quills of thought. Some go on to leave a legacy for the world to read and reread while others get stuck in this silent forest and its purposeful steps.

It's not that they desire to write volumes of thoughts to store up in bottles that need dusting or casting out to sea. It's more that their blood would atrophy and break off in their veins if they didn't. Writers write to live, thus, live to write. The non-writers in their lives do not understand this dichotomy. They thoughtlessly throw stones at their solitude and rush to haul them back into the real world. The balance isn't easy. Most days are spent on a tightrope grasping to the pole of reason barely keeping their feet in one world or the other. It would be a more harmonious existence if writers chose writers in relationships. Gone would be the need to explain why writing a couple of pages took half the day or that eating was optional. It would be common knowledge that it's not polite to poke a writer when he or she stares off into space to make sure they’re still breathing. Writers would be free to climb the inner trees and leisurely watch their ideas break off and float down onto the page. Yes, they also might forget to go to work or pay the mortgage but that kind of reason would be lost in a relationship between writers.

Writers do not waste their words in conversations; they fold and tuck them into safer corners but do not take their scarcity for lack of love for you or an unwillingness to share. You would be overwhelmed at the David their words would sculpt of you from the white stones of this inner world. It's out of compassion that they hold back and not risk your believing that they’ve stepped over sanity's ledge into hyperbole. Be kind to them. Give them ample moments to wander into these woods for their pens are dipped in the ethereal and they scribe a braille wind blowing through a blind world. They desire to share what they have heard when they can capture your full attention.

Mona McPherson

Jenga Ninja

Another dinner out with Cindy proves informative and conversationally stimulating. We had been discussing how in the past she would know a roommate was a match for her and it centered on the scientific calculations of spacial adherence. Cindy was compatible only with a person that allowed her the freedom to move about the planet unencumbered by expectations, and, that said person, must agree to abide by the division of space never once to encroach upon hers without permission. This prompted her to suggest there should be a specific word for the kind of anger that is elicited by space invaders so we kicked around a few generic ideas before landing on space-gry. As Cindy spoke of her conditions, I imagined those negotiations with potential roommates lasting months because, like Moses, her commandments were carved in stone and just finding a mountain in Florida for her do any needed rewrites would be problematic. As her first roommate this took me back. 

Inclinations of her condition were unearthed in my formative years when we shared a room; I’m using the term “shared” loosely because, to share, would imply equal agreement on the utilization of space availability. This was not my experience as the youngest. Our room looked like a drunken bamboo quartered off a spec of land east of the north window on a single tile and stuck a flag in the ground with my name on it. Like a Jenga Ninja; I was expected to stack and pack my belongings within that tiny space while hers sprawled out leisurely across the vastness of the rest of the room daring to throw snarky looks at me. So complicated was her construction of this your zone vs my zone division that my dad had to install a pulley system to the ceiling so that not even a foot of mine would touch the sacred ground of her real-estate. Anything belonging to me that dare cast a shadow onto the Queen’s abode would be tossed into the River Styx never to return from purgatory. Space-gry indeed, just ask my Jane West doll whose left boot spur eked unintended over the imaginary perimeter. She was snagged, bagged and tagged and on her way to level one as the rest of the carefully stacked items looked on in terror and admiration. Cindy’s strategic excavation of Jane, whose position was middle left center on the tower, was most impressive.  Without even a wobble Jane was gone. My only solace to her greedy takeover of “our” room was to scale my tiny tile tower and perch myself atop dreaming of the day when I were free from my tile cell.

 The things that jar the memory into the shuttle back in time are often the most unexpected; a simple conversation at the Chicken Pantry and my childhood bubbles to the surface.  Although I can look back on this time now understanding that firstborns have all the power in childhood, and, can appreciate the lesson of hierarchy; I’m sure this first brush with privileged society lodged in my psyche and made me unconsciously strive for better conditions in life; it makes the study of birth placement and personality a very interesting topic. My roommate now has no such requirements of me and I enjoy my spoil of our room. Rest assured, however, I shan’t retire my Jenga Ninja outfit hastily. In secret I still feel the need to practice the unique skill sets I learned from childhood. God just might have the last laugh by sticking Cindy and I in the same room at an Assisted Living Facility and I insist on being prepared this time.

 

A Change of Heart

Last night was my first World AIDS Day celebration. I was invited by my co-worker who has fast become a wonderful new friend. Her name is Kathy and her brother’s coming out many years ago changed the landscape and direction of her life. She is now a leader in the community co-founding a group dedicated to the education of friends and family of the LGBT community. Her story is just as inspirational as she is; the more I get to know her, the more depth she brings to my own understanding of the meaning of compassion for alternative lifestyles.

The celebration was stationed at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church in Daytona Beach. It was there that we joined a tide of people in front of the image of Mary standing in cave like structure, a child at her feet praying to her. The night was lit by candles which became part of the theme of one of the speakers who equated the light of each candle to represent the light of God on the canvas of ignorance. This speaker was a woman who has been living with AIDS for 25 years. Her courage to give an audience to her struggle was more than admirable; “the stigma still remains,” she said! Although it is not as raw as it was in the 80’s when just the word could have people in a fear frenzy. Kathy shared with me her own concerns about her brother during this time and how she could understand those concerns. Her words made the night more personal for me.

After the speakers were finished the priest walked us to the Halifax river, the waves of moving candles flickering down the sidewalk as we walked were impressive and had me thinking about the many people around me. So many lives touched by this disease, still. We ended up at a large gazebo out on the water with everyone packed around each other. Kathy’s name was called out several times as she knew many people there who wanted to say hello. One man walked up to her and gave her a big hug and when she introduced me to him, he scooped me up in his arms as if we were long lost friends. His name was Jeff Allen. At that point there was an invitation for anyone there to speak about a loved one who passed from this disease. Many tossed their loved ones names gently out into the crowd with stories that made it easy for me to imagine that they floated out to sea as each family shared. Other names remained close to the vest; the loss too new or too powerful for them to untie to be let go of just yet. The Rabbi then gathered us up again for the walk back to the church.

Once there we found a seat and waited for the panel of interfaith speakers and a gay man to begin. The gay man was Jeff Allen who turned out to be instrumental in the church's outreach program to the LGBT community. The most touching moment was when Jeff spoke about his parents and how he knew so many families that disowned their children when they came out; his voice cracked with emotion as he spoke of receiving nothing but love from his mom and dad. My heart found itself weeping for those so harshly cast aside, and, thankful that Jeff had such a supportive family.

The night brought my life full circle. Being raised a Southern Baptist steeped in extreme conservatism; I was front row to many services throughout my life that spate out just how this wickedness was ruining our country; the sermons were always laced with the caveat, “love the sinner but hate the sin,” yet, the words were tight with hypocrisy. Love cannot contain judgement ... it is inclusive and compassionate.

Kathy would tell me later that the gentleman who hugged me, Jeff, had Aids. I’m thinking this morning that Jeff has more love and compassion in his pinky finger than most Christians I know today.

It was a beautiful night with a beautiful friend and I received a beautiful hug from an HIV positive gay man named Jeff Allen. This is a memory I won't soon forget.

Mona McPherson

What Love Does

I was observing a class that my upstairs assistant was conducting and making mental notes on the group when a rather large man in a nice business suit just outside the door caught my eye. He was pressed against the wall of the TV room fidgeting with the change in his pocket unable to hide his discomfort with being on the lockdown ward. By the looks of his clothing and disposition he could have been a lawyer returning from closing arguments or businessman buying up a trillion dollar parcel of land. His soft eyes were fixed on our new resident who was seated in a wheelchair picking at his shirt and roaming in and out of his emotions with a heightened agitation. This resident had erupted twice with a violent attack on two nurses and a maintenance man who were now consumed with trying to restrain him. The last nurse was punched so hard that I thought he knocked her out so I exited the room to take her place in the struggle to get him under control. It took 5 of us secure him the wheelchair and almost an hour to wear down his resolve.


The large man in the nice suit walked up to our patient once he calmed down and tried to engage him in conversation, "Do you know who I am?" His voice swimming deep in uncertainty lined up that question again and again but each attempt was with a vacant drug induced stare falling limp with lethargy and exhaustion. The new resident pushed away from the man in annoyance. Unable to process what he should do the large man eased off the wall and walked closer. "It's me… Jim!" The man in the wheelchair was following his own thoughts and did not reply. "We've been best friends for twenty years, remember?" I drew a deep breath in empathy as I didn't mean to be riffling through a conversation that didn't belong to me but the safety of the patient and our staff kept me perched close enough to hear every word. My own thoughts wondered what must it feel like to share your life, love, secrets, beliefs and dreams with your best friend for twenty years and then to be wiped from their hearts in less than a second in a head on collision that killed his wife and left him brain damaged. To look into the same eyes that used to reach into your soul and drag out the very best of you buried under all your own doubts and wash you clean with the declaration "THIS is who I see in you!" And now those eyes fall blind in a mind that no longer lives.

The man in the nice suit stayed and we both watched that afternoon stretch into a hard 2 years. He left quite the impressions on me as I watched his love hoist his best friend up onto the shoulders of their new one-sided relationship. His care continue uninterrupted and without reciprocity until his friend passed away.


How often are our relationships hinged on what we are receiving from others and not in what we have to offer them. This man redirected my life into one that selects friends very thoughtfully knowing that he has set the bar in my life for what I'm willing to do once I call you friend.  


Mona McPherson

Reminders

The morning was slow and muffled by the sound of rain as I pulled the covers over my head thinking I might sleep in, but no. There was an instant call to get up and go for a walk on the beach which is only 15 minutes from my home. The last time I had been to walk the beach early in the morning, I found the body of a 24 year old man who just the day before decided with his brother to brave the rough seas of a tropical storm for a quick swim. He lost his life. The site of him facedown, his shirtless tan back and long black hair waving in the waves tossed an anchor in my mind to the exact spot he was found. I had not been back to that spot or for a morning walk since. Still, this call would not let me go. I thought about how this has stood in my way for so long since I used to love walking the beach at dawn. The odds of me finding another body are slim to none and my depriving myself of this joy is only handing me out limits on myself. I released the control and got dressed.

 

As soon as I pulled up to the stairs leading down to the sand, the rain gave up leaving a completely deserted beach for me and one crusty fisherman. Taking the last step on the stairs I looked both ways making sure nothing was floating in the water. With the all’s clear sign waving I hopped off the step and breathed in the sea air embracing my long lost friend. Feelings of thankfulness soon lined the walls of my cranium like dusty wallflowers. 2015 was my comeback year after losing my voice in 2014—Facebook had sent me a reminder of that memory asking if I’d like to repost it on my wall, no thank you, but how soon I forgot about being locked within my own asylum. There is no way to be in the world without speaking, I thought, so I wasn’t as much as possible. I wasn’t until a long awaited surgery gave me back my voice. Gratitude began to pipeline into a warm wave picking my thoughts up off the sand and I can’t be sure I’ve touched down yet but the ride is what I needed. I lived through it and thankfulness danced within me that morning as I thought about how it would be nearly impossible for me to care for my mom the way I need to with me not being able to communicate with her.

 

A chilled wind blew through me casting up the white foam and sprays of water, the jacket I forgot to bring laughed at me from the dinning room chair; I bid my walk goodbye and headed for my SUV. Swinging by a drive threw I grabbed a warm to drink and was headed to my favorite spot in The Loop. The Loop is one of the most incredible motorcycle rides in our area and I have such fond memories of taking those turns on my bike and being ambushed by something new in Florida’s beauty with every ride I made. My sweet spot is nestled in curve with a pull off spot favored by fisherman and artist for its beauty. On my way to this glorious place my plans were arrested by a whisper reminding me of the Labyrinth a friend took me. It wasn’t too far away and although I’ve been there three times, I’ve not been able to walk it. The religion of my past stands as a Centurion in my way crossing its massive arms and lodging its big foot in the crevasses of my ideology. The weight reminding me to be careful but something was different. I stood at the arrows edge demanding that those things leave my life; I’m too powerful to be stopped by a ghost no matter how ginormous he seems to be. He’s the Centurion of ideology past. I took a deep breath and walked right through him. My thoughts quickly surrendering to my heart’s opening and there the lesson of faith bloomed.

 

Louise

He is taking me away for the weekend so that I can catch my breath; this big hearted man with his 20 year old work boots tells me as prepares to go outside and build me that shelf I’ve been wanting in the laundry room. I’ve barely looked into his sweet blue eyes for weeks now but this morning we both took off to handle some unexpected business.  So much has happened this week and continues to happen that it seems it’s never a good time to get away but he made a plan and I’m so thankful that he did.

 

As he gets up to leave the room I say, “What about Louise?” he stops letting go of the door knob to return to the end of the bed and begins to tell me his progress with the 1966 Chevelle project; if there is one thing this man loves to do---it’s talk about Louise. The guy who is redoing the body should come at the end of the month and take it off the frame and then he tells me that he will begin to work on the frame itself; he then stops in mid-thought to look at me. “I know”, I say; and we both laugh as I tell him I understand the frame will remain in the garage and that I can’t park my car in there, still. This has been an ongoing discussion between us as I remind him often that he promised me when we bought this house that I would be able to park in the garage—something that eludes me still due to our decision to go get Louise who had been parked at his mom’s house for years. But I wouldn’t give anything for the memories of that long cold trip to Arkansas to go get her. I think that’s the most we’ve ever laughed together and it still brings a smile to my face.

 

Our conversation continued and I asked him how he will feel when she’s done. There was a long pause causing me to watch him thinking and then he said, “The first time I turn the engine over when she’s completely done is going to be a HUGE deal and very emotional for me.” His words begin to build with meaning and his eyes tear as he stopped before continuing, “I’ve thought about this car for 20 years, imagined bringing her back to her original self and dreamed of the day when she’d be exactly what I remember when I was five years old and riding it her with my grandparents.” The whole room paused as he thought and then added, “The boys have each made suggestions to me that I would have never thought about on my own but that will add something new so their input will be in the car as well making it even more special to me.” We talked a bit more about how long it might take and some interior ideas the shop had given him about going with leather and adding creative stitching to make the seats standout. As I half listened to the specifics of it all my eyes kept admiring those beautiful eyes of his and my heart sat down to ponder how much this car means to him.

 

I’ve barely looked into his sweet blue eyes for weeks now as life has pulled us in a million directions. We’ve not had a casual conversation all year---most of what we’ve had to discuss has been so hard and heavy. But not today! One quick question about his favorite subject and I was pulled into a real moment with the man I’ve been in love with for decades. His idea of going away this weekend is becoming more and more exciting. We need this break! Today he has made me realize that life needs to go on even when the journey gets hard. I’m glad he’s still a part of my journey and his grandparents would be so proud of him and his project.

 

Tag, you’re it! I challenge you to ask a meaningful question to at least one person in your life today.

 

The Last Conversation with Mom

I stopped by mom’s yesterday to see how her new anxiety medication and found myself in the interesting topic below.

 

Mom: Were we discussing Holidays?

Me: I think they mentioned something about Mother’s Day on TV.

Mom: Father’s Day should be on the Devil’s birthday.

Me: WHAT?

Mom: Don’t we celebrate the Devil’s birthday?

Me: I’m not aware of the Devil having a holiday.

Mom: We have Christmas and Easter for Jesus but when is the Devil’s Day?

Me: Hmmmmm…. don’t know that the Devil gets a day.

Mom: We could combine Father’s Day with Devils Day

Me: Why would we want to do that?

Mom: DEVILS ARE FATHER’S TOO—YA KNOW!

Me: Okay.

Mom: Do Devils have children?

Me: I’m not sure what do you think?

Mom: Why on earth did you bring up such a ridiculous topic?

Me: I don’t know.

Mom: I swear sometimes I think you are all losing your minds.

Me: Yes, mom, I agree.

Mine and Thine

Mine, love, flowed lifeless

barely beating 

Ebbing existence’s shores

Thirsty to be known

 

Thine, love, life's breath

Breathing

Waving from the sea

Eternal meaning

--Mona McPherson

 

No Soup for You!

There are moments that suspend you in time where the gravity of a situation, no matter how hard you’ve been trying to keep it at bay, will hit you with a thud. As you know my mom has a terminal illness and these past months have been a stretch for all of us just trying to adjust to the fact that she is on that slippery slope of decline. True to the nature of who I am, I’ve been managing things by mostly staying on the river of denial with both ores in the water just to keep myself together and be present for her while she comes to terms with a reality that is growing ever more difficult. One of the major struggles is how she keeps forgetting that she can no longer do so many things that once made their way into her life daily. One of the things I miss the most is her cooking which became most apparent in recent exchange.

 

The day had started in its typical way with me helping mom get dressed and then back into bed which at the time she was bed ridden. Mom talks a lot about things that didn’t happen and my part in our conversations are to agree with her and pretend that the unreal is real. On that particular day she had begun to tell me that she went to the store to get the ingredients to make my favorite soup. Extremely important side note, I am a soup Nazi! I could eat soup morning, noon and night and never grow tired of it and my all-time favorite soup had been one of the ones my mom would make. Even though she gave me the recipe long before she got sick; I’ve never been able to duplicate the taste of her soup. When mom told me she was going to make my soup I was simply going to acknowledge what she said and then distract her with asking questions about other things she’s interested in but when her words landed in my mind my heart stood at attention. So fast and loud did her words hit me that it created a traffic jam in my throat as I realized that I would never have her soup again. That was the snag that began to unravel me! That one realization brought the gravity of where my relationship was with my mom now and how it will never be the same.

 

It’s just soup but in that moment it became the bookmark of when I lost who my mom used to be. There will be no more sharing of my life with her like I once did. Mom cannot participate or even remember from each visit to the next what was said and her attention span has been cut to mere minutes before she starts to repeat herself. I’ll never walk into her home and smell my favorite soup on her stove and turn the corner to her kitchen to see her smiling, knowing, that she had made my day. She slipped away in the hands of a stroke when I wasn’t looking.

 

With losing so much of my mom over these months I’ve learned to value my conversations much more. It has become very important to me to follow through with actions from the heart when I feel prompted to encourage or support others. There is a silent deepening of the music called my life and with each new note I hear, the clearer my intentions of being a greater version of myself are. I've grown so much this year and soup is still my all-time favorite food but even more than that it has become a sacred reminder to be present when in the presence of others. If you're out to eat with me and I order soup, it's because I'm reminding myself of how special your company is to me and I'm wanting to stay in the moment. 

Mona McPherson

After the Storm

A few life times ago I had the privilege to work in a residential program for military men with PTSD. This program was an intense counseling program for those struggled with what they experienced in Vietnam, specifically. My job was to occupy them during their down time teaching them woodworking, leatherworking and metal forming. For some reason another class was added to my roster and this class consisted of acute psychotic care cases, most of these men were permanent residents suffering schizophrenia and other mental illnesses but occasionally they would get a suicide attempt. It would be during this class that I would hear one of the most amazing life stories ever.

As my class began to pour into the room I noticed a nurse assisting a rather small young man that was engaged in a conversation with her and laughing. It was obvious that this man was blind. Bewildered, I look at the nurse with a question mark crossing my face. She could tell I was wondering why she was bringing a blind man to an art class and offered, “He wanted to come and he knows what your class is about.” With that the man said, ”Actually, I want to learn how to under water basket weave.” He told me his name was Daniel and that he’d been there for weeks recovering after leaving the hospital and mentioned that it got lonely on the floor when all the other guys came to my class so he just wanted to hang out with them.

The nurse took Daniel to a seat while I got the class started on their projects. He had a very happy disposition and an endearing personality. Physically, Daniel was missing an eye and the right side of his forehead was caved in drastically as if part of his skull had been removed. It was obvious that blunt force trauma had been used on him. With everyone working I went over and sat next to Daniel and told him that I had to make a file on everyone that comes to my class so needed some information. After getting the file started Daniel asked if I wanted to hear his story and I told him that I was not part of the medical staff so he was not required to disclose, but, if he wanted to tell me anyway, I would love to hear it.

In all of his 24 year old wisdom he said that he had joined the military right out of High School to get away from his abusive father but soon decided that the military life was not for him and got out when his first tour of duty was up. Upon returning home his father told him that he had enrolled Daniel into college and selected all of the classes he would be needing to begin his degree program for engineering like his father, mother and older brother had done before him. But Daniel didn’t want to be an engineer, he wanted to study art. The argument that followed was brutal. His father was a tyrant, banging his fists and screaming at how useless art was and that he’d not pay for any son of his to waste his life that way. The line in the sand was drawn.  If he studied art, he would be kicked out of the house and all support severed. “My father has been abusive and mean my entire life”, he told me. With no options and his tail between his legs, Daniel relented.

College bought him no breathing room from his father. Daniel’s dad insisted on micromanaging his time which left no room for fun or making college friendships.  Daniel hated everything that had to do with engineering and hated his father more. He struggled with each class making disastrous grades and then heard about how terrific failure he was nonstop.

 Daniel was different. He was a soft spoken man. I could see how a bullying father would get away with running roughshod right over the top of him. He spoke like a poet and I imagined him in loft somewhere sitting attentively with an enormous half painted canvass lost in his expression and listening to classical music with his hands stopping periodically to orchestrate the symphony. This man was not an engineer and wasn’t even like any of the ex-soldiers that filled the empty seats.

It was four days before Daniel would be graduating with a degree he never wanted. He was in his room playing the slideshow of his entire life and adding the new ones that would soon be coming. The more he added the more he could see he would never have the backbone to stand up to his father and would forever be stuck in a life he loathed. There was only one thing to do.

The gun store was across town from the college but Daniel doesn’t remember the drive, he did remember the nice clerk who seemed to enjoy talking to him about the pistol he was about to buy. The clerk offered to teach him how to safely use the gun which Daniel thought was amusing at the time but assured the clerk he was familiar enough with it. Daniel thanked the clerk, paid for the gun and left. His family was to arrive the next day to help him with packing so time was running out to get this over with. Daniel thought to himself that he needed to find a place not too far from a road so that his body could be found. He pulled off the main road and was driving in the country when he spotted a place. Daniel got out of his car and began walking into the woods when unexpectedly came into a clearing. “It was beautiful”, he said. “There was a pond that was so still that morning and I saw a family ducks floating as if in slow motion and deer walking across the way”. Daniel sat down and began thinking again. Soon the beauty faded and the reason for his being in the woods took up the space around him.

He raised the gun to his temple, took a deep breath and squeezed. Daniel isn’t sure how long he lay in the grass but he did remember hearing the birds singing and feeling the sun warming his face as he slowly regained consciousness and realized he was blind. He laughed halfheartedly to himself and said, “I can’t even kill myself right … who’s gonna hire a blind engineer?” The question came back to him like a boomerang. “Who IS going to want to hire a blind engineer?” He realized that he couldn’t be an engineer any longer. That thought elated Daniel! The will to live began to grow and he sat up to orient himself to which direction the road would be in. “I’m sure it didn’t take hours but it felt like it with me crawling on my belly all the way out of there”, he said. Finally Daniel reached the gravel and could tell he was lying by the roadside.

The next thing he remembers is waking up in the hospital to someone crying. A strong calloused hand had a hold of his and he squeezed the back. It was Daniel’s father. Daniel chocked up as he recalled it. “My dad’s voice was different, he sounded scared and then he began apologizing through his sobs about his not letting me live my life.” Daniel told me that he lost his sight that day and the ability to paint but that he was happier now than he has ever been. His relationship with his father changed for the better.

There are amazing lessons hidden in our tragedies that are waiting for us. I’m sure many of you have stories of transformation just as empowering as Daniel, yet, perhaps, not so desperate as to bring you to suicide. We are here to fully be ourselves and to allow others that same right; be an advocate for personal truth.


Mona McPherson

Wicked Ride

My hands gripped the bottom of the van seat so tight that my fingernails poked straight through the leather seat. Our driver making a hard left secured them in place as she cut off a pickup truck. The truck’s occupants, convinced of its right of way, like synchronized swimmers made the exact same hand gesture in perfect execution. How could they not see it in my eyes, the desperation, the helplessness?!How could they ignore my plight?  I’m sure they would have helped if they knew that five women had just been kidnapped. Our hands and feet bound with duct tape and our bodies slammed into a white hot rocket that now barreled down on an elderly couple from New Jersey. We were too close to see their license plate but their screams held a thick Jersey accent as they spattered out of the car window. I couldn’t look! I closed my eyes and prepared for impact trying to remember something, ANYTHING, about the first aid class I had years ago.  What’s the point? We had broken the sound barrier at the St. Augustine exit and our driver hadn’t used the brake once since pulling away from ground zero. God have mercy!

I wish the above were true. If it were then I would not have to admit that the five of us willingly and under no duress entered the van and secured our seats for a nearly lethal day trip to Jacksonville. Names have been changed to protect the guilty, we shall call her Dolores. After arriving at Dolores ‘home on time and excited for our trip to Jacksonville to see the play Wicked, Dolores wanted to show us around. One of my fellow hostages mentioned that we really needed to have left 15 minutes ago if we were to make it to the play on time. I was unclear if that hostage rubbed her the wrong way or if Delores was secretly an exhibitionist because she snapped back that we had plenty of time and as a capstone said, “I can get to Jacksonville from Palm Coast in 45 minutes”. Fortunately, we had an accountant in the group who then stated the mathematical impossibility of such a claim complete with verbal graphs and charts. An intuitive I’m not, but, an eerie feeling disturbed the air and squeezed its way across Delores’ face. It was the kind of feeling reserved for the criminally insane or those who can rotate their head in a 360 circle.

At this exact moment the good sense of 5 intelligent women exited stage left. We packed in the van like lambs to the slaughter. Why we bothered with putting on seatbelts that day is still a mystery but like kamikaze pilots wearing helmets we strapped ourselves into one wicked ride.

It soon became clear and should have been our first clue that Delores was not kidding by the way she laid rubber in front of her house. The smoke from her burning tires lofted so thick in the air that neighbors began pouring into the street like ants from under a burning log wondering whose house was on fire. Dolores waved madly as she made her get away. The on ramp to I95 was a blur. This blond bombshell maniac now had a deadline to make come hell or high water. We were 2.87 minutes into this drive when all five of us came to the same conclusion; our driver was not following proper road etiquette. She bobbed and weaved in and out of traffic like Dale Jr. minus training, experience and male packaging. Dolores cut people off at every turn and with such precision that there is a new definition for tailgating; the amended dictionary now uses the term, “to Dolores."

It’s true what they say, when facing death with people you form a bond like no other. There was a lot of bonding going on in the van that day. Delores, unaware of the deepening relationships occurring between her hostages huddled over her stirring wheel drooling with anticipation as if possessed by a legion of moonshine runners from the back woods of North Carolina out running the law.

She soon locked onto drafting behind semi-trucks but I’m sure it was less about saving precious gas and more about bragging. Her eyes bounced off the clock every 4 seconds making sure to adjust for road kill, slow drivers, puppies and small children. The hard rights and lefts had us slamming into each other constantly, except for the hostage who rode shotgun. She is the one who would see the end coming first and had the white knuckles to prove it. At one point I began to pray that she would take her shoe off and smack Delores so hard on the head that it would knock her out, at least we might slow down enough to survive impact but no luck, my telepathic skills lay like jelly on the floor of my mind.

We careened off the exit ramp to Jacksonville almost hitting a homeless man with a shopping cart and then bucked on the seats hitting pot holes that either weren’t too smart or fast enough to get out of the way. Delores did a sideways slide into our parking spot then blurted out, “SEE, JACKSONVILLE IN 45 MIN!” Not everyone heard her boast as most flew out of the van clutching the one life they had left and not one bemoaned the ones sacrificed on I95, even the feral cats watching from the street seemed impressed. I heard Delores because I stayed behind in search of my stomach that had squeezed between the seats when it saw the homeless man.

After our play had ended, we all faced the fact that we had to go home. The walk was slow and arduous, so slow that I had time to stop and tie my shoe and browse through Pinterest without losing pace. Every face I looked into donned a John Coffee walking to the electric chair stare. A thought climbed into my brain unassisted as we walked; I wondered if I tackled Delores to the ground could the rest start sheering off unneeded clothing to bind her?  We’d just toss her in the back and deposit her in her driveway then ring her doorbell and run away. Her husband would come to her rescue. The only reason I didn’t bring it up was that I wasn’t sure her husband wouldn’t just leave her there to rot; he’s driven with her too.

My plot sputtered to a stop with that uncertainty and we all took seats in death mobile, again, putting on our seatbelts (insert dramatic eye roll here). Delores suggested that we take the scenic route and no one seemed to mind or perhaps they couldn’t hear her over their pounding hearts. Either way, off we went in search of the scenic way home. Somewhere along the way Delores began to fumble in her console and pulled out a flask. A FLASK! She suggested we pass it around and enjoy the illegal use of alcohol while driving a motor vehicle. Okay, she didn’t actually say that but did motion it towards all of us and the implication was clear. No one was taking the bait. That didn’t sit well with Delores and she let loose with a loud, “WELL EVERYONE CARRIES A FLASK!” The five of us flask virgins crossed our legs and thoroughly disagreed with her. The subject was dropped and the flask put back in its holster without consumption.

Not content with how far the St. Johns River was along her chosen route; Delores began to suggest that we find the road that runs right along the river. We all whipped out our smart phones to locate this road. It didn’t exist on any satellite navigation system known to man, or, as I’ve often wondered, perhaps our smart phones were not as smart as they thought they were. Delores, who knows the road is there because….because….because? I don’t know why but was beginning to think she had access to the Vatican and all its secret road files as she was adamant that the road existed in a holier than thou kind of way.

Each road that she wanted to turn down verified our verifiable satellite information that there was no road by the river. And, yes, there were signs at every street reading NO THROUGH WAY. These signs appeared to be perfectly self-explanatory but not to Dolores. She insisted those signs did NOT mean the road ended, like it did. As my fellow hostages took on the debate about the correct meaning of NO THROUGH WAY; I decided to sit quietly and stitch my stomach back to my esophagus which is no small feat in a moving vehicle. Also, why on earth didn’t I have the foresight to bring my sewing machine; a zigzag stitch would make quick work of my internal organs.

Delores remained convinced her road was there, so convinced that she turned down one of these clearly marked streets leading to a NO THROUGH WAY, pulled over to a park and proceeded to ask directions to this non existing road. Not only was she not satisfied with the resident’s answer, emphasis on re-si-dent, but, after he told her the road did not exist and mentioned the NO THROUGH WAY sign, she drove off and found two other residents on the street who agreed with the first re-si-dent. She still did not relent on the meaning of the signs nor could she bring herself to admit defeat; she did, however, choose not to take the road that did not exist and that made all of us very happy.

It took us 45 minutes to drive to Jacksonville from Palm Coast; I have the near-death-contract to prove it, and, it took 5 hours to drive home. In the last leg of our journey Delores began squinting and squirming in her seat uncomfortably. She finally made a statement that was the icing on an already horribly disturbed cake. “I have night blindness and can’t see a thing”. At that statement every hand in the van went up to take over driving the death mobile but Dolores argued back, again, not concerned with the risk she was creating for us and everyone in the vicinity of the van. Dolores limped us back to ground zero. I recall the stench of burned rubber still hanging in the air as terrified neighbors’ grabbed their children and dove for their front doors. The death mobile had made it home.

There are moments when you realize that you should have handled a situation in a better manner. Here’s my moment. This story could have ended very differently. Granted, I embellished the actual events for story telling sake but the truth is that we could have all died that day as well as taken out other innocent people. Delores was reckless, reckless to the point of endangering many lives just to prove a point. I’m sure I’ll not do the same thing if faced with this situation again, but, it did make for an interesting day and I know 5 girlfriends who will never forget it.

Mona McPherson