I am

My mother has the worst sense of direction. I inherited this quark and have sense forth been condemned. I have very little memory of my mommy dearest when I was younger beyond her carting my brother and me around in her 1992 Silver Ford Station Wagon. Our family gives names to all of our cars and the “Silver Bullet” with its chocolate frozen yogurt stains on the back seat was no exception. If you have ever seen a silver motor home that just looks like a pill a bit too big to swallow, shrink that idea down to about half size and that is exactly what the Silver Bullet looked like.
My mommy’s face told the story. Her head was on a swivel as she glanced left to right reading street signs. Even at five or six years old, I knew we were lost. I might have been the only one in the car that cared because my brother just kept reading Goosebumps while mom remained silent. Keep in mind, six year olds, wear their emotion on their sleeve and I wasn’t put on Earth to break tradition.
“Are we lost?”
“We aren’t lost we are merrily having a scenic adventure” said mom. The tone of her voice almost covered the obvious fluster.
Now believe me, I did not understand the gravity of the situation I found myself in today until my husband asked me if we were lost while on rout to a friend’s apartment. We had had seen the reflection of my little red sports car in the same Shell Station window four times when I promptly responded “We aren’t lost, we are merrily having a scenic adventure,” I realized then at the age of 24, I have officially become my mother’s daughter.
Ever since officially gaining the title of ‘my mother’s daughter,’ I have accepted all the responsibilities that entail. I drive to Knoxville, Tennessee a few times a year and even though the rout is simple, take 71 south all the way down to Cincinnati, continue down 75 south until you begin to see signs for Knoxville, when there, call mom. On my various trips to Knoxville, I have accidentally been to Lexington, Maryville, Paduca, and Asheville; all are more than 100 miles away from Knoxville in all sorts of directions. I understand that maybe I should learn to read a map, but over the years spent on scenic adventures I have grown accustomed to finding my way the hard way. I do not believe that I am ever actually lost, I have just decided to go another way.
For all the scenic adventures, only one car has taken me on the most exciting. I paid my very first $250 car payment 27 days after I turned 15 years old. My parents were doing their civic duty by allowing me to earn my first car. The red Oldsmobile Alero with leather interior would speed down the interstate cutting through the mountains of the Appalachians and rounding each accidental turn with power and agility. The car has never been washed unless a few gallons of naturally distilled rainwater are dumped from the sky. Three years after making the first painful withdraw from my savings account, I am the proud owner of four very dirty hubcaps. The little red sports car, now dubbed “Rundown Red Thing,” sits in the driveway collecting dust day after day like my lone Algebra textbook under my bed.
The name of the car only foreshadows my most recent trip to Knoxville. Most cars can get a bit more than 3,000 miles on one oil change but my car, began asking for oil less than 1,000 miles after the oil and oil filter had been exchanged for new. I treat my car as if my own blood, taking it into the doctor numerous times for the same ailment to check for improvements. My “Check Oil” light had come on and my car began to smoke like a tugboat down the Tennessee River on a hot summer day. At this moment, I only know that I am far enough South that White Castle has turned in to Krystle and it is too late to turn back and go home. There are mountains, so I know that I am south of the Ohio River and I see my first “truck run-a-way” exit. I am in Jellico Pass. Once one gets into Jellico Pass, there is no exiting, entering, stopping, or speeds lower than 85miles per hour. My car has no oil and I will not be stopping for 36.5 miles.
In addition to my mom’s sense of direction, I have also inherited her luck. Ten miles down Jellico Pass, my car’s smoke is so thick that I have to hang my head out the window to see what is five feet in front of me. I know that my car is not going to make it and I decided to pull into a ditch. The thing about Jellico Pass is that not a single cell phone works the entire stretch of road; so there I am, in the middle of May’s rainy season, walking the 6 miles back toward the last rest stop.
With inclines and even steeper declines, trucks cannot stop for anything on Jellico Pass, excluding, but not limited to, small children. My cell phone eventually gained service and I could call my mother, I gave her direction to exactly where I was but the problem with Jellico Pass is that most of the rest stops are not accessible by the people driving the opposite direction.
In hoping that my mother would not get lost herself, I prayed a little prayer over my Snicker’s Bar dinner and spent that last few quarters that I had in my pocket next to the lint on a can of Coke. My mother ended up driving over 100 miles, all the way North of Jellico Pass, and back South to find me. I am my mother’s daughter.