The Essence of Adventure

My aunt and uncle have a farm in the adjacent county, and my family celebrates several holidays at their farmhouse. An afternoon tradition is to walk the length of the nearby gravel road – a brief rod in the expansive 1-mile x 1-mile grid of country roads covering the county. As a steady stream of cousins, siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and farm dogs, we trek to the nearest intersection and then retrace our footprints in the tiny rocks going the other direction. The air is usually profoundly quiet, allowing the crunch of our steps and melody of multiple conversations to travel across the fields to the only visible neighboring house and on through the tops of mature shelter-belts dotting the horizon. Dust billows behind passing farm trucks and school cars, but vehicles rarely use this road. My family spreads from shoulder to shoulder and claims it as our own. My mother loves this tradition. Even in biting November winds, she makes the long walk and encourages relatives to go with her.

A creek meanders through the property not far from the house, and a 50-foot bridge allows the road to continue the straight and orderly pattern. Built in the 1920s or 1930s with crisscrossing steel beams and wood planks, it is a staple of the walk as we pause to toss rocks over the side and compete for biggest splash in the water below. Gradually, the distance we travel shortens and the bridge becomes the destination.

As I drive to the farm on one particular holiday, a bright orange sign greets me at our turn-around point for the walks. In foreboding black letters, it warns BRIDGE OUT. However, from my vantage point I can see that the structure is definitely still intact. My sister, driving our father's Le Sabre (a car we affectionately call “the boat”) pulls up beside me and rolls down the window. Our parents and sister are with her, and we all stare ahead at the sign and the bridge that is clearly not “out.” No construction equipment or other barricades belie work being done, and our father confirms that the sign is to supposed to deter excessive traffic until the county replaces the bridge.

“Well,” says my sister behind the wheel, “I guess I'll go first.”

“Get a fast start to propel yourself across in case it starts breaking,” I advise through the window.

She turns in my direction, smiles broadly, and floors the gas pedal. The boat shoots forward across the intersection, kicking up gravel and dust and leaving a trail of Mother's laughter accompanied by Father's pleas to “watch it!”

The county estimates that over 800 rural bridges need repair, and only a handful are replaced per year. The BRIDGE OUT sign at the intersection fades and darkens around the edges as years pass, and soon it becomes just another component of the landscape. 

For a few summers, my father shares a garden with my aunt at the farm, and he makes frequent trips to tend the plot. He brings my mother along, though as her cognition worsens, she spends most of the time following him around, wanting to be helpful but unsure of how. Even when my father shows her how to pick squash or tomatoes or rhubarb, she forgets by the time he turns around.

One afternoon, when my aunt and uncle are out of town, my father says that he has a lot of work to do in the garden but is worried about what to do with Mother.

“She needs to get out the house,” he explains. “Maybe you could drive her around on the mule for a while.”

I agree, and when we get to the farm, my mother and I search the out buildings until we find the mule, an all-purpose motorized vehicle that is kind of a hybrid four wheeler and golf cart. The bench seat in front fits two people, and a small truck bed in the back carries several bags of fertilizer. Or, in this case a Blue Healer and Labrador Retriever. The two farm dogs jump on as soon as I turn over the motor. I pat the seat next to me and tell Mother to hop in. She giggles briefly and sits down.

“Hold on,” I advise, pulling the cart onto the gravel driveway. The mule has no seat belts or doors, but it does not go faster than about 10 miles per hour so my advice is fairly anticlimactic. We roll along at a modest 4 miles-per-hour down the drive, passed my father in the garden-- Mother waves profusely as we mosey by, and the dogs wag their tails-- and onto the dirt road.

We toddle around the property, through an old barn crowded by overgrown weeds, by a small rural cemetery lined with headstones, and around the stalwart orange sign. I keep the gas pedal pushed all the way to the floor, but in the expanse of sky and roads and fields, the cart feels like it creeps. The dogs ride along for about three minutes, but they also get bored and jump off.

My mother is an attentive passenger. She watches the clouds and the dogs run by as we meander onward. She says nothing, even when I ask if she is having a good time. I want to remind her of the adventures she had with her Beetle, but the slow pace of the mule and the rural landscape seem to leave few opportunities to do so.

When we arrive at the bridge, I let up on the pedal and the cart begins to coast across. As it slows with each passing inch, Mother and I gaze over the sides into the creek, where only a trickle of water winds between deep muddy banks. A few feet from the other side, the mule slows to almost 0 miles per hour. The hum of the engine propels the cart forward, barely. Mother rocks back and forth in an effort to will the vehicle onward.   

As soon as the front wheels touch the first particles of gravel road, I floor the pedal again.  The motor roars disproportionately loud for its small size, and the mule lurches forward, getting back to speed in about two seconds.  My mother laughs with this change of pace, but as soon as we max out at the top speed, the world seems to slow down again and my mother falls back into silence. 

We cruise around for a little while longer and follow the same routine, crossing the bridge and reaching the other side seven times.  Each time, during those first few seconds when the cart feels like it is taking off, my mother’s laugh echoes across the fields.

Years pass in the same rhythm of slowing down and speeding up as the mule crossing the bridge, and after a major speed-up, my mother stays at the Memory Unit full-time.  The debilitating effects of the disease and her medication restrict her travels to just her daily walkabout in the building. 

For Mother’s Day, my sister and I make a special afternoon visit to the Memory Unit. 

“We’re busting you out of here,” I whisper in Mother's ear as my sister slips on her shoes.  She greets this information with the same placid stare she had when we arrived.  Her head continues tilting to the right and drool slips from the corner of her mouth onto her shirt. 

We guide/push her out the door, and Nurse waves at us to have a good time.  We slide her into the front passenger seat of my mid-sized sedan.  Her eyes barely see over the dashboard, so she rests her chin on her chest and closes her eyes.  Once we start moving, she sits up straighter and faces forward.  

We cruise around town and pause briefly at a drive-thru window to pick up three small chocolate shakes.  Though Mother drinks hers in record time, her face remains emotionless and she says nothing. 

Town streets eventually give way to the four-lane business bypass that skirts the city limits.  I swerve onto the on-ramp and accelerate from 30 miles-per-hour to the limit of 65.  As the car propels us down the ramp, my mother smiles and laughs and her eyes sparkle to life.  

She quiets when we reach top speed, but we keep looking forward, searching for the next adventure.