Traveling Pat

November 23, 2015

Greetings from a kindred soul,

There was an energy in her that belied her ninety two years.  It flowed out from her in the way she moved, how she expressed herself with her hands, the strength in her voice.  She had a firm handshake, held on to my hand a fraction longer than I expected while she welcomed me to her kitchen.

Her eyebrows were nearly invisible, so that when she looked up at me she appeared to have an expression of permanent amazement.

She fluttered near me as I showed her how to set the clock on her stove, asking me to show her again, and then instructing herself out loud, as she did it with her own hands.

“Don’t you use the oven?” I asked.

“No, I never have.  I don’t need to.”  She waved at a microwave and a toaster oven on the counter.  “Honestly I’m afraid of it.”  She said this with no embarrassment.

“So, what about Thanksgiving?  Will you visit family?”

“Oh we’ll bring the whole thing in from Frankenmeuth” she said, proud, as if she invented the concept.  “No, it’s so much easier and then we can just enjoy the meal.”

We visited at her kitchen table for a few minutes, until I could see she had thought of something, and then she popped up and waved me to follow her.

“I want to show you my … my hallway.”  We squeezed past her walker, which seemed more like a pet than a necessity, and led me deeper into her home.  We passed by a neat living room, her chair ringed with the things she would want near.

She spoke in short bursts, punctuated by odd pauses as if she was giving me time to catch up.

“My husband,…was a Major.” she said, looking up at me to see if it registered before continuing.  “So we lived…all over the world.”   I started to ask what branch of service but she had already begun another cascade of one sentence stories.

“After he passed away I kept travelling.  I’ve been to 30 countries.”  Here she stood still with her hands on her hips, and allowed me a moment to congratulate her.

“How long since your husband passed?” I asked.

“Twenty three years.” she said instantly, no break for mathematics. 

“So, did you travel with groups, or friends…?”

She turned to me to explain.  “You know some people don’t like to travel in groups, or in excursions.  I’m like that.  And so I would find these companies that take singles… to help plan the trip, they would make all the arrangements … and I would go.”  Confident she had answered the question she continued the tour.

“Here, this is from Peru…” gesturing at a woolen shape on the wall “and I took these in New Mexico.”  A scattering of pueblos, artful composition, excellent light.  She had taken her time with these shots.   She guided me down the hall, a docent of her own life, sharing little vignettes from each place represented on the walls.

“Where are these mountains?” I said, pointing at a collection of photos.

“Those are the Himalayas, and that is Nepal” She held her hands out to explain, drawing in the air.  “I wanted to go someplace, you know, that wasn’t spoiled yet, some place where there …wasn’t a McDonald’s.”

She looked at me to see if I understood, her mouth set in a straight line, the contempt for the golden arches clear on her face. 

“It’s amazing.” I said. 

“And I got what I set out for.  There wasn’t even…well, conveniences.  If you needed a bathroom, …you just…went out there…” she pointed to the mountains, “..in the Himalayas.”

She smiled at her own candor.  She moved to the next display.

“These are from when I went to the Galapagos Islands.” said Pat, her hands demonstrating an island somehow.  We stood in front of a series of wildlife pictures.

“Really beautiful.”

She laughed.  “These birds are called… my grandkids love this… called ‘Blue footed Boobies’.  They just crack up when I say that.”  She laughed again, a teenage girl.

We said goodbye, both of us with a new friend, both grateful for the moment to share the adventures she treasured.  Driving away it occurred to me that Pat had been sixty seven when she flew to Nepal to explore the place before the golden arches spoiled it. 

The next day she called me.  I recognized her voice but she wanted to help me.

“David.. this is Pat from yesterday  …Traveling Pat..” a little laugh, “.. you remember I showed you my hallway.”

“Well, of course.” I said.  “How could I forget?”

I’ll admit that I am not always paying attention when I should, and that once in a while I get lucky in spite of myself.  Someone opens the door on their life and even in that glimpse I am made better for that experience.  It is always a reminder that the chances are always there if I am willing to pay the price of looking.

Hope this finds you exploring,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith