In the song, “Don’t Want Lies” by The Rides (Stephen Stills, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, and Barry Goldberg),” Stills’ sings, “What’s the shape of my future / as my life goes whistling by?” The song, reminiscent of Crosby, Stills, and Nash from an earlier era, has a bluesy feel as it poses thought-provoking questions about someone examining his or her life. Perhaps it is because I have spent so much time with family and friends in the past few years, travelling places or simply sitting around a campfire on the beach, I have felt the slippage of time, especially after I learned I had a brain tumor. I embrace solitude, but to appreciate the silence, I need my family and friends to create an infusion of laughter, love, and mercy into my life. I have discovered that road trips are the key to my future.
Warm summer days and cool nights transform winter-weary wanderers into road-warrior travelers. My husband and I drove from Michigan to Florida in February to escape brittle winter winds and the stratified layers of snow and ice surrounding our home. Earlier this summer, my husband, son, and I hit the road again and spent a few days in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. When my son asked if I wanted to take a road trip to Colorado so that he could attend the wedding of a friend in mid-July, I jumped at the opportunity to spend time with him, visit friends in Colorado, and put a few more notches on my “have-driven-through-these-states” belt. At six a.m. on July 18th, we quietly slipped out of Matt’s neighborhood as we began our road trip.
Matt drove the bulk of the way, and I took a few turns behind the wheel. After a fairly easy day of driving despite the extreme heat and the steady hum and grind of the semis on the roads through Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska, we sought a break from our travel and spent the night in a motel in Kearney, Nebraska. The next morning, we ate our complimentary breakfast and prepared to check out. I pointed out an ironing board in the closet, and Matt said: “Do you even know how to iron?” As someone who eked out a “C” in Home Economics in ninth grade, and no memories of my mother forcing me to iron anything other than a wrinkled hem, I had refused to iron as a grown up woman, and I laughed as we headed out of the motel. Colorado awaited us.
With Matt at the wheel, he drove past the endless fields of corn, cattle, and hay along I-80 as we headed west. One of Matt’s favorite radio stations is Lithium on Sirius. At one point, I turned to him and said: “Is this the Alice in Chains station?” I quickly followed up my question by stating: “It’s not a criticism, a witticism, or dipshit-ism.” Matt looked at me briefly before turning his attention back to the road. Instead of commenting on his music selections, I started mooing when we went past fields straddled with cattle. If we passed a field dotted with crescent-roll shaped bales of hay, I simply said: “Hay.” I am fairly certain I annoyed the hell out of Matt, but his tempered response of a quick eye roll and subsequent search for a different radio station seemed to be all he needed to put up with me.
We eventually cut south towards Windsor, Colorado. When Lynard Skynard’s “Freebird” came on one of the stations, I said I would rather hurt myself than hear that song one more time. In my “mom-entary” moment of madness, and perhaps hearing that song one too many times over the years, I actually wanted to hear another Alice in Chains song or something by Nirvana. Perhaps I, the intrepid road warrior, had turned into the song police. Thankfully, Matt would be free of my endless babbling after he dropped me off at Susan and Dick’s house. As I watched Matt head off to Boulder, I wondered if he would remember to pick me up on his trip back to Michigan. As he waved goodbye, Susan and I began to talk. And talk. And talk.
I met Susan the summer before ninth grade, and we became friends. Although time and geography have kept us apart, we have managed to stay in touch. We had seen each other during a Pretzel Tour trip (my yearly adventures with Micki, Rachael, and Jeanne) four years earlier, and I met Susan and Micki for lunch in Denver two years ago when I was in town for a wedding. For this visit, I had invited myself to stay at Susan’s house, and she kindly agreed. Of course, this was before she rediscovered my endless enthusiasm for telling stories, particularly ones from our years as smoking-hot-high-school chicks. Well, that’s how I remember it, and I am the one telling this story.
The next day, we went to Micki’s house in Greeley, ate lunch with her husband, and then with Micki behind the wheel, me riding shotgun, and Susan in the backseat, we headed to Estes Park in Rocky Mountain National Park. As Micki steered us up highway 34 through the Big Thompson Canyon, I marveled at the beautiful scenery. There is something singularly breathtaking about the beauty of the mountains where sheer rock walls and hardy pine trees merge with cool rushing streams of water as gravity shape-shifts the land. Micki turned onto Glen Haven road, and we worked our way to Estes Park; an elevation of 7,522 feet. My home at Higgins Lake, Michigan, has an elevation of 1,150 feet, so as my brain and body adjusted to the continuous upwards motion, I realized that I was certainly in “Freebird’s” terrain.
While in Estes Park, we visited the Stanley Hotel, an inspiration for Stephen King’s The Shining, complete with a Jack Nicholson doppelgänger holding an axe while seated on the front porch. Although typically a photo-op poser, I refrained from forcing my friends to snap a picture. After a quick tour of the hotel, we decided it was time to head back down the mountain. We made a quick stop roadside and stared off into the distance towards Long’s Peak, standing tall at 14,259 feet. Perhaps on my next trip to Colorado, I can figure out a way to “get much higher” as Joe Walsh famously sang in “Rocky Mountain Way.”
Micki headed down the mountain via highway 7 south of Estes Park where serious cyclists going up and down the mountain seemed as if they were enjoying the rise and fall of elevation. We eventually joined up with highway 66 in Lyons where we drove past a hippie van parked in front of a bar/restaurant. I wondered if I had slipped back in time somehow. As if to add to my musical reverie of the past, John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” came on the radio. The three of us began to sing along, although I seemed to draw a blank on many of the lyrics, something I now blame on oxygen deprivation caused by the ever-changing altitude. Growing up in Dodge City, Kansas, with an elevation of 2,550 feet, I had probably listened to Denver’s classic song at least a thousand times, but I had never heard the song while sliding a few thousand feet down a mountain road made up of hairpin turns and the tops of trees indicating where the road ended and a Thelma and Louise moment might begin.
We returned to civilization, and we spent the evening at Susan’s house reminiscing. Micki and Susan’s husbands wandered off as we took yet another trip down memory lane and examined our high school yearbooks. When I started reading aloud what I had written in Susan’s yearbook when we were mere sophomores, the three of us laughed so hard I thought we might spontaneously combust. I had filled up a page and a half with my deep-introspective-full-of-myself musings. I had been full of dipshit-isms even then. I hesitated as to whether or not I should read Susan’s yearbook from her junior year. I noticed a half page of writing and a very long poem taking up a full page in her yearbook. Smartly, during our senior year, Susan did not allow anyone to sign her yearbook, most likely because she was afraid I would find it and write yet another lengthy soliloquy about life, love, and angst as a teenager in Dodge City, Kansas. Since our 40th high school reunion loomed ahead of us in a few weeks, I decided it was best if I stayed far away from yearbooks or reams of paper in case I felt compelled to pontificate, or worse, share some “mom-entary-isms” or “dipshit-isms” with anyone still speaking to me. With that thought in mind, I headed to bed early. Matt planned to pick me up at six a.m.
As I knew he would, Matt arrived a bit early, and I was ready. We drove through Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and into Michigan without much of a problem. We had been constantly checking our various weather apps as we watched an ominous-looking line of thunderstorms crossing Lake Michigan aiming, as if guided by Google Maps, exactly towards us. By the time we rolled into Matt’s driveway around three in the morning, my body seemed to misunderstand what it felt like to be stationary. After a few hours of sleep, I headed home. I don’t really remember driving, but the car seemed to know the way.
There’s something to be said for spending time with family and friends, but for me, I think it boils down to feeling damn lucky. I feel blessed that I have a son who actually wants to spend time with me, especially side-by-side in a car driving through six states. I am also grateful for great friends who still put up with me even though they have known me since ninth grade and have heard some of my stories at least forty times. I am starting to think this brain tumor thing I have isn’t so bad, since I am finally catching on to what really matters in life. Our homes, wherever we end up living, exist in the physical world, but memories allow us the ability to time travel between the multiple relationships and elevations that shape us into who we are.
Friends David Hayes, Pam Presta Miller, and Cari Johnson Pelava were all members of my wedding party in 1978. When I moved from Dodge City, Kansas, to Hermosa Beach, California, in 1976, they were some of the new friends I made soon after I arrived. Cari and David were former Michiganders and are directly responsible for me meeting Jim—the love of my life. David recently moved back to Michigan, Pam lives in Ohio, and Cari lives in Minnesota. We put our collective heads together and figured out some days towards the end of September when we could spend some time at my house. It was time for a reconnection, since Jim and I had not seen Cari in thirty-four years and Pam in ten. We spent our days laughing, sharing old pictures, making fun of each other, and catching up on each other’s lives. There, however, seemed to be a constant as we enjoyed each other’s company: music.
Music played in the background whether we were in the car or in the house. One day when we were traveling, as I rode in the backseat between Pam and Cari, I started singing “Stuck in the Middle with You.” One morning, as people were waking up and wandering into the kitchen for their first shot of coffee, someone mentioned having a weird dream. Naturally, since we all lived in California during Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album explosion, I started singing “Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?” from the song “Dreams.” The more I fell into this pattern of singing instead of talking, the more difficult it became for me to stop myself. It was as if I had lost sight of language unless it was attached to a song. At one point David asked me how I could remember lyrics for just about any song even though I had trouble remembering things from the past year or two. His question made me stop and wonder: How was it possible that I could remember songs and lyrics? Was I reconnecting to the past through music or because of music?
On September 5th, 2011, I began reading Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks. He examines how music and the brain function together. As I always do, I wrote comments in my journal and made notations in the periphery of the pages of the book. As I recently reread my comments while working on this essay, I discovered a chilling comment I had written after reading about “motion parallax (the shifting appearance of the visual world as we move through it)” (155). My journal comment: “How I feel before a migraine.”
I had been having unusually severe headaches during the summer of 2011, particularly when the barometric pressure rose upward as if a needle on an old stereo, as it finally reached the end of a song. Motion parallax also seemed to happen when the barometric pressure spiraled downward. Everything synthesized on October 29th, 2011, when I suffered a Grand Mal seizure and discovered I had a brain tumor. Now that I look back, it’s almost as if reading Musicophilia during this time frame in my life was meant to be. The warning signs were there, but I failed, or perhaps refused, to heed them.
As I continued examining my journal notes from my initial reading of Musicophilia, I noted my fascination with the passage Sacks wrote about a session with one of his patients the poet W.H. Auden attended and said the session “reminded him of an aphorism of the German Romantic writer Novalis: ‘Every disease is a musical problem; every cure is a musical solution’” (274). Why do I feel so moved by that insight into the human psyche? Why has music played such an important role in my life? Maybe I don’t know the answers to these questions yet, but I know I am not alone. I know that music affects my friends as well.
One night Jim, David, Cari, and I sat on our deck watching the moon rise over the lake with our conversation further illuminated by several candles burning on a small table. Most of the lights in the house had been turned off. The Eurythmics “Would I Lie to You?” blared from the stereo inside with Annie Lennox’s voice fueling the driving drumbeats while Dave Stewart worked his guitar magic. We noticed Pam, inside, dancing and singing as if no one else existed. It was as if those of us on the deck had disappeared, and Pam had been overtaken by synesthesia—a “fusion of the senses” (Sacks 192). I understood how this could happen, because when I listen to this song on my iPod, it makes me want to run or walk faster as if I could spin myself into the future.
I also remember moments of Pretzel Tour road trips with Micki Holladay, Rachael Livingston, and Jeanne Beilke where conversation ceased. Micki would slip one of her CDs into the car stereo, and as an old familiar song began to play, we would sing along while our bodies gently moved, even though we were strapped in by seatbelts. What role does music have in the synesthesia of friendship? And as we sing and remember, are we returning to a time in our past when life was much simpler? To a time when we were young and the future seemed to be a long promise in front of us?
I also remember when I taught at Saginaw Valley State University, and I played guitar and sang with the Cremains of the 10th Circle. We practiced once a week in the Cave, multiple times a week if we were going to perform somewhere, and I practiced at home every night for hours at a time. I felt sorry for my husband and dog. Although my dog would place himself next to me on the floor, away from the amps, he would stick with me until practice was over. Jim stayed in the living room or ventured outside while his wife rocked the neighborhood. It was quite important to me to memorize the lyrics of the songs I practiced and not use a cheat sheet during a live performance. This isn’t to suggest I was perfect: I screwed up lyrics quite a few times. The band was loaded with talented people, and I wanted to try and keep up, perhaps convince them I was worthy to be in the band.
I wonder now if I could perform live without a cheat sheet. Could I nail the lyrics? When I practice, my fingers seemingly fly across the guitar with abandon, but what about the lyrics—the language of the song? Sometimes I practice with my eyes closed, hoping I won’t have to open them to look at the typed or written words on my cheat sheet. These songs should be as embedded in my brain as much as songs I wrote while I lived in California or songs I survived on during my high school years. If I can answer a question with lines from a song, there has to be a reason. I know that music is the solution to my problem—and I am working my way back into the way my life was before everything suddenly changed if that is possible. Maybe music is my solution because music is how I connected with so many people.
Reconnecting with friends and relatives over the past year has reminded me how lucky I am to have such amazing people in my life. I have only mentioned a few of those people in this essay. They are the mirror to my past, present, and future. If Novalis was correct when he wrote “every disease is a musical problem; every cure is a musical solution,” then I am ready for the cure. When I sing some of my original songs such as “Radio” and “Highway Michigan,” my own moment of synesthia forms, and the people in my life, the memories, and the sheer joy I find in the sounds, the images, and language connect and reconnect me to everything that matters.
In Sheryl Crow’s song, “Everyday Is A Winding Road,” she sings “I get a little bit closer to feeling fine.” I have been attempting to use this approach to my life as I negotiate the path having a brain tumor has put me on. This philosophy was recently in play as I waited for my flight at the airport in Manistee, Michigan, I noticed a small dog running alongside a man driving what looked like an oversized golf cart tugging a small plane. The flight to Chicago would take less than an hour, and this was my first flight without my husband since my brain tumor invaded my life. I figured the dog would bring me luck.
As the plane rose above Manistee and headed towards Chicago, I watched the incredible view of the coastline and Lake Michigan. Micki Holladay, Jeanne Beilke, and I had decided to rent a car in Chicago and travel Route 66 until we reached Lebanon, Missouri. Once there, we would cut to the west and travel to the Lake of the Ozarks and stay with Gretchen Leonard Steffen and her husband Robert. Rachael Livingston, the fourth member of the Pretzel Tour Gang, would be there waiting for us. Jon Jambor, another high school friend and dubbed an associate Pretzel, would also be joining us.
I had not seen Micki, Jeanne, and Rachael since August 2011 during Pretzel Tour 2. My seizure, followed by the subsequent discovery of my brain tumor, was in late October 2011. I had not seen Jon or Gretchen since Pretzel Tour 1 during the summer of 2010. I wondered if my language, memory, and emotional problems would be noticeable or if I would be able to hide them. I also have balance problems, and I wondered if I would fall down somewhere or wipe out in the middle of a tourist stop on Route 66.
Our adventure started well, and we stopped at a lot of tourist spots on Route 66. On the second day of our trip, Micki slipped her personal mix of music into the cd player. Nat King Cole’s version of “Get Your Kicks on Route 66” set the stage for our journey:
“If you ever plan to motor west, travel my way, take the highway that’s the best. A-get your kicks on Route 66.”
We were getting our kicks, no doubt about it. However, I was having trouble with the heat and humidity, so I tried to rest when I could and stay out of the sun. I think Micki and Jeanne were afraid to let me try my map skills after my most recent bout of getting lost, but during a torrential downpour, severe weather, a horrific bus accident that shut down 55 on both sides, and crazy detours, my mapping skills were put to the test.
We had been travelling along on Route 66, which parallels 55, when Mother Nature showed us who was boss. With Micki driving, Jeanne riding shotgun, and me trying to negotiate Google maps from my iPhone in the backseat, I thought I was guiding us to a little winery just north of Litchfield.
In what became known as the “Litchfield Incident,” I guided us to Litchfield, where water gushed out of downspouts and small lakes covered the streets. The sky stayed the same dark gray. As Mr. Blue Ball on my Google map happily bounced along as we made forward progress, we stopped in amazement as we reached our destination: Litchfield’s police department and fire station. No winery was in sight. From that point forward, I was relieved of my duty to guide us anywhere.
After a fantastic trip on Route 66, we set aside our quest for the history of the Mother Road, and headed towards Gretchen’s in the Lake of the Ozarks. As a child, my parents used to take me to the Lake of the Ozarks, and they had once taken Gretchen and me there for a weekend of water skiing and goofing off. I was overcome with happiness in this place that was somewhat familiar, but also so unfamiliar.
My friends were incredibly kind to me, reminding me to take my medication, helping me down the steep slope of Gretchen’s driveway, and encouraging me to traverse the floating dock. I tried to keep up, but I could no longer do so. I spent a fair amount of time sleeping or resting, enjoying the beauty of the lake, the joyous laughter of my friends, cuddling next to Gretchen’s dog Dakota, a Golden Retriever, and talking back to a very large parrot named Poncho.
After leaving Gretchen’s lake house, Jon led the way to Lawrence, Kansas, with Micki and I close behind. Rachael and Jeanne brought up the rear of our caravan. Jon parted ways with us, and the four of us had a beer and a bite to eat at the Dynamite Saloon. After walking around for awhile, it was time for Micki, Jeanne, and I to head east towards Chicago. Rachael had to head back to Tulsa.
We spent our last night together in downtown Chicago. I was too tired to go out for dinner with Micki and Jeanne, so I got comfortable in my bed and watched the Olympics. I was exhausted: I wanted to go home. I wondered if I had made a mistake. Had I let enough time go by to be out in the world? Could I last one more day to reach the comfort of my husband and my home?
The following morning seemed to go off without a hitch; no second edition Litchfield incident seemed to be in my forecast. Jeanne was scheduled to fly out of O’Hare airport later in the afternoon, and Micki and I headed to Midway. Although Jeanne and Micki had their boarding passes, I did not: Public Charters out of Manistee was small, and I had to wait to get my pass from their check-in booth. Micki and I arrived around 12:30. She was ready to head to security. Public Charters did not open until 4:00, so I had no way to go through security without a boarding pass, and the section of the airport I was stuck in had few chairs, lots of screaming children, an over-priced snack bar, and restrooms tucked in corners. I panicked. What if I had a problem? What if I couldn’t figure out how to get through security without becoming confused?
In “Modern Friendships,” an essay by author Phillip Lopate, he suggests that “Friendship is a school for character, allowing us the chance to study in great detail and over time temperaments very different from our own.” Learning to understand my frailties over the past year, and even longer as the brain tumor wedged its way into my psyche, I realized I needed to confess my concerns to Micki: I was scared.
Micki walked me over to the escalator and we rode downstairs to a large area filled with people on our right headed to the baggage claim area and people on the left joining the long line of folks waiting to go through security. Carefully, she explained to me just what I needed to do.
We returned to the upper area, where Micki spent time talking to me before it was time for her to go through security and head to her concourse. She reminded me of what I needed to do when I finally got my boarding pass. As she walked towards the escalator, I reminded myself that I used to be the confident one, and the friend anyone could count on to help through a difficult time. Wasn’t that part of me still there? Had the brain tumor eliminated what I considered my best attributes?
I finally secured a seat to wait for my airline to open its booth, and two small boys ran up and sat next to me. Their teenage sister sat down on the other side of them: Our foursome was complete. The children played games; I pretended to read my newspaper.
Once again, in my lucky life, things fell into place. Public Charters opened at three—an hour earlier than predicted. The man and woman behind the counter asked me if I would like to check my bag even though it was a carry-on. I sent it on its way. All I carried now was my small over-the-shoulder bag. I had three hours until my flight.
When I arrived at security, I noticed a sign for an “Express” lane. I asked the woman there if I was a candidate for “Express.” She smiled, said yes, and sent me down the hallway past all of the people standing in line. As I rounded the corner, another woman waved me through. I placed my bag and shoes in a bin, sent everything through the x-ray machine, was waved through the metal detector, and made my way to my concourse.
As I approached my boarding area, I heard a voice call my name: Micki was waiting in the concourse. We had a short conversation and another passenger joined in as we discussed the boarding process.
Later, after Micki boarded her plane and took off for Denver, it was finally time for me to board my flight to Manistee. The pilots flew near the magnificent downtown Chicago area as we headed north and eventually east. We entered a bank of clouds at one point, but soon the clouds disappeared, and I looked out my window and saw Lake Michigan below me. A freighter cut a smooth path across the water, and I realized that I, too, was part of something moving forwards, and what I left behind would be memories in the wake of kindness bestowed on me by friends and shared stories with people from my past.
Lopate, Phillip. Getting Personal. New York: Basic Books, 2003. Print.
“Everyday Is A Winding Road” by Sheryl Crow, Brian MacLeod, and Jeff Trott
“Get Your Kicks on Route 66” by Bob Troup, 1946.
Pretzel Tour Three
In the summer of 2009, Jeanne Beilke phoned me from a road trip she was on with Christopher Cave and Jon Jambor. All of us had gone to Dodge City Senior High together and graduated in 1973. Jeanne, Chris, and Jon had been touring the roads of Kansas, Colorado, and Oklahoma on their motorcycles. After hearing how much fun they were having, I wondered if Jeanne would agree to hit the road with me the following year. Since Jeanne and I had not seen each other since we had graduated from high school, I wasn’t sure if she would want to spend time on the road with me. When my mother died in 2008, I found myself wanting to see Dodge City, a place I had not been to since my parents moved to Michigan in 1992. Were Dorothy’s words true? Is there “no place like home”?
I contacted Jeanne, and she agreed to travel with me. To visit friends and family in various locales, we planned to fly into Denver, Colorado, head south to Route 66, head east to Tulsa, Oklahoma, and finally wind our way north and west to Dodge City, Kansas. After viewing the strange route we had planned, Jeanne came up with the name of our adventure: “The Pretzel Tour.”
We posted our ideas on Facebook, and our simple plans grew exponentially. Micki Holladay and Rachael Livingston joined the tour. Destinations and parties were planned. I had not seen Micki or Rachael since the mid-seventies before I moved to California. Friends constantly asked me if we would all be able to get along. I had no idea.
Jeanne flew into Detroit from Virginia Beach, Virginia, and I saw her for the first time in thirty-seven years. After we were together for about ten seconds, it seemed quite apparent that we were going to have a very good time on our trip. We flew out of Detroit and into Denver. We rented a car, and tried to find our way to Aurora, Colorado, to meet up with a high school friend, Richard Osborn. I managed to get us lost, pointed out the “swirly things” in the distance (tornadoes), and we eventually met up with Richard. Jeanne told me I had been out of Kansas too long if I referred to tornadoes as swirly things.
Jeanne and I headed to Denver. She drove us to her sister’s house, and my cousin Julie Bowline picked me up. The next day we met up with a group of high school friends who lived near Denver: Susan Maynard Wolfe, Marty Goff Hahn, Robin Troyer Friesen, Mickey Webster Winfrey, and the other half of the Pretzel Tour gang, Micki Holladay and Rachael Livingston. Some of us had thirty-seven years of catching up to do. We laughed so hard my stomach hurt. I am surprised the Wynkoop Brewing Company did not kick us out.
Two days later, Jeanne, Micki, Rachael, and I headed to Boulder, Colorado, in Micki’s car to meet up with Ted Larson, yet another person originally from Dodge City. Part of our Pretzel Tour plan was to head south to Route 66, and Ted suggested we take the back roads. We hit CO 286 and the Collegiate Peaks Scenic Byway. Every time we saw a spot that looked interesting, we stopped. We were in no hurry. As Micki drove, we settled into a routine of telling stories and listening to music. When Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” came on, we talked about how much we loved this song when we were in high school. Rachael and I declared it as our “favorite-favorite.” All of us sang along softly, each of us lost in some memory we decided not to share as Robert Plant’s voice seemed to take us back in time.
We worked our way to Alamosa for the night, and hit the road the next day. During the days ahead, with Micki always behind the wheel, Rachael riding shotgun, and Jeanne and me in the backseat, we eventually worked our way towards New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas. Rachael and I drove out to the house I had grown up in, and I felt strange as I stood in the driveway. I had been thinking about Miranda Lambert’s song, The House That Built Me, and realized the significance of wanting to go home again. There are a million stories to tell, but I will save those for another day or in a book.
At one point along the way, an old friend asked us who was in charge. We all started laughing. Was one of us supposed to be in charge? Unless you count my penchant for bossiness, we all got along splendidly, and Jeanne, Micki, and Rachael put up with me.
We discussed the possibility of Pretzel Tour 2 the following summer. A friend of mine from California, Denise Manson Torres, joined us. Because of our various schedules, it seemed as if Michigan would be the logical place to tour. We hit Northern Michigan with a vengeance. During the trip, I started missing turns when I was driving. Places I had been many times before seemed confusing to me. Micki, Jeanne, and Rachael gave me the ribbing I deserved, and they found a beer koozie for me with this saying: “I’m not in charge. I just know what you should be doing.” Not only was I missing turns, I was becoming bossier by the minute.
As we parted in early August, we discussed our plans for Pretzel Tour 3, but we did not decide on when or where. Three months later, I found out I had a brain tumor. I figured that would be the end of just about everything in life I loved, including my trips with this fabulous group of women.
Pretzel Tour 3 begins August 1st. Jeanne, Micki, and I will meet up in Chicago and begin the trek on Route 66 as we head towards our destination at the Lake of the Ozarks. Rachael will join us as we spend our days at Gretchen Leonard Steffen’s house. We will tell stories, drink beer, and enjoy each other’s company. All of us have been through many challenges in life, and somehow we have managed to work our way through the losses and disappointments to become the women of substance we were destined to be. We are all damn funny, and we like to tell stories. My friends are willing to put up with me as I make this journey, knowing I will mess up my words when I talk, and my memories will be suspect at times.
Ladies, I am ready for the adventure to begin, and I am still working on getting rid of my bossiness, but I will bring my beer koozie just in case.