STILL DAZZLING after all these years

A freak Midsummer snow flurry, complete with arctic winds across the Great Lakes, decided my wish for me. 

Bookie and I were sunbathing on the sand dunes behind my Lake Shore house. We sprinted inside where I put a log in the pot belly stove.

“Fix you a Hot Toddy?”

“Please,” he said. “With some of that famous blueberry brandy.” 

He meant Old Daddy’s secret recipe. I’d swiped it last Georgia visit. Daddy’s called for peaches. Mine settled for wild Michigan blueberries growing on the vine near the dunes.

Bookie was back at Saginaw from his California sales route. After working his Midwest territory, he’d head for his south Florida golf retreat by October.

I loved Lake Michigan. But five years, all seasons, were enough. 

“I’m tired of cold clouds.” Which covered the sky two-thirds of the year.

Bookie suggested Del Mar.

“It’d be a nice break,” he said. “I’ll be finished there by Dec. Property manager could hold my condo after I leave. You could stay a few months to see if you’d like to settle.”

He described the climate, tempting me. By Autumn I began clearing out. Checked into prospects with San Diego’s aerospace industry; my jig-design shop peers provided me with a list of job-shops out there. 

Took me until November, but I was ready. I reached to remove Ma Bell’s wall phone so I could turn it in for my deposit back. It rang. 

Was Mama. They'd just received my latest letter. Disappointed I wouldn’t be down for the holidays. I explained, again. I needed to go before the Rockies or High Sierras mountain passes were snowed-in. 

I’d already traded my AMC Pacer for a gently-used, cherry red VW camper bus. Tucked a hefty roll of traveler’s checks (along with other stash) in my bus’ various secret compartments. Kept a few precious things:

Like books. Home-made speakers. Pioneer turntable. LP vinyl collection. Necessary clothes, for travel, work and fun. Racing bike. Drafting portfolio. Resume. Letters of recommendation. Gas card. Cash for 'in-case'. 

Plus my fur-buddies. And beau-coup faith in that old wishing star. 

I was ready. 

But it wasn’t meant to be. 

Old Daddy got on their extension. Armed with weather forecasts and advice. “Come South,” he said. “After the holidays, take the southern route." He meant I10 West.

“All my children will be here," said Mom. "Except for you.”

What could I say? Jiminy Cricket was in my head.

I headed South. My co-pilot, Socks, rode shot-gun. My Siamese cat and meditation buddy, Anandamaya, claimed a basket high on the back cushion.

Only problem, I’m terrible with maps. No sense of direction. Navstar GPS wasn't yet available to civilians. I had only my trusty Rand McNally map book. For extra measure, AAA gave me a goof-proof trip tick. 

Unavoidable other problem: my co-pilot couldn’t read maps or road signs.

Made it to north Georgia. But Atlanta road construction messed me up. I passed crucial clues through tricky turns along business I75. Mistook a local Stone Mountain sign for the Interstate one my trip-tick advised.

Before I knew it, I’d steered my over-packed bus and crew up a narrow, steep climb.

I had to keep going. Prayed for an easy turn-around on top of Stone Mountain. Still learning to drive that bus, and night driving not my forte, I tried not to panic. 

Fortunately there was a turnaround. Plus a little park. Socks enjoyed his big bowl of water and longish walk, though he tried hard not to insist on a run. I promised him one once we made it to Old Daddy’s property. I mixed some fresh grated organic produce into their pet food. Made a picnic salad for myself with the rest of the veggies. Anandamaya drank his water, took a bite of moist food, and approved the fresh kitty litter.

By now Mama would have lost her mind with worry. The detour and my miscalculation of the timing meant I missed dinner. 

Not just any dinner. Thanksgiving dinner. But no phone booth.

I found one later at an I75 rest stop. Phone call done, I camped with the bus curtains closed. Socks sat up all night as body guard. He poked his head between the curtains and glass, practicing his scary, snarl-face at innocent passersby.

Thanksgiving dinner--sort of. 

I finally made it to south Georgia. By almost noon. 

Old Daddy said, "Come, sit. Have Day-After Thanksgiving lunch.” 

Mama took dressing, gravy and cranberry sauce leftovers out of the fridge. All my favorites. She heated those while Old Daddy started to carve the remaining turkey with care.

But I'd been a vegetarian during my stint at Lake Michigan. Whispered this to Old Daddy. He, in a less conspiratorial tone, promised to slice mine real thin, promising it'd be okay. 

I thought how hard Mama worked the day before. Guilt over my poor planning and late arrival overrode my sensibilities. So, I ate it. 

All.

That evening, more leftovers. Old Daddy's slices were a bit thicker. 

Afterwards, Socks gave us a laugh. He watched the movie abandoned by my little brother, Bo. Our family favorite: Old Yeller. Socks sat directly in front of the screen. He barked at all the appropriate lines. It was his first experience with television. 

The next morning Mom made a surprise:

Sunny-side-up duck eggs. And French toast.

By noon Old Daddy and Bo loaded me, prone, into the back of the family station wagon. Drove me to the nearest Urgent Care. In those parts, it was 20 miles from the family home. 

The longest ride of my life. Even considering I’d just driven 940 miles.

The doctor prescribed ulcer medicine. It helped, yet I was certain that wasn’t it. I didn't like using pharmaceuticals, so stopped taking the meds. Went back to vegetarianism. Suffered my siblings’ teasing and parents’ chiding. Better that than pain.

No more duck eggs, either.

My holiday visit lengthened when my bus gave out weird noises. 

Old Daddy came to the foreign car shop. To ensure they didn’t take advantage of his inexperienced, 'Yankee' daughter. He phoned the VW dealer in Tallahassee for another estimate. Shop's dime.

The local price was fair. I'd survived my first experience with major car repairs.

My nest egg hadn't.

Old Daddy’s solution? “Get a job.” 

He meant, there. At south Georgia. Not California. But he was right. 

I landed a sub-contract with a tiny aerospace firm, contracted by Cape Canaveral.

Which was fun. More so when I met a handsome Air Force colonel at a business party, and he asked for a date. I phoned my psychic at Saginaw, Mrs. Z. She told me what the Colonel and I already knew. I wasn’t military-spouse material. 

After the contract ended, the firm asked me to stay. But my salary wouldn't get me to my goal soon enough. 

As usual, Old Daddy had the answer. “Get a better job.” 

I did. A local factory requiring my tech hired me; with outstanding pay and benefits.

Fate, however, played a trick on me.

Because I met the man of my dreams. A contractor at the factory. So, I didn’t head West on the I10, after all.

My family surprised me. They decided to retire, at Atlanta, leaving me to plan what Mrs. Z called my ‘karmic marriage.’ Day-One, and things portended as much. As I left for a honeymoon that proved no better, family--both sides (except Old Daddy)--laughed at my ‘Wedding From Hell.’

Being a good sport, I did my best with what I had. For several years. Circumstances, however, showed me I’d learned all I could. So I split our holdings, 50-50, and made my getaway. I did the only sensible thing anyone in my kind of trouble would.

I moved to a remote, spiritual community in the wilderness.

It was a great experience. One day, after nine years sitting at the guru’s feet, I received enlightenment. Not in the way you'd think. Instead of finding Brahma’s Gate, I saw my wishing star.

It so startled my inner gaze that I could barely see. Lights bedazzled me for hours. Later the ophthalmologist said it was vitreous detachment.

Soon after, and with my guru’s blessing, I packed a tiny U-Haul trailer. My only pets this time were Sita, my eight-year-old canary, and a picnic cooler filled with water for my goldfish, Fin-Fan, and his guppy pals. My little potted jade plant, too. I threw a couple apples in a brown bag with some crackers and cheese.

I’d bought the snacks from a vending machine at the shop that installed my trailer hitch. It was there that I heard a strange knocking on wood. It was my knees. Apparently, fear really does make them knock.

Seeing my white face, the manager gave me water. Asked what else I needed.

“Just a yellow pad and pen,” I said. Then wrote out my ‘script’ for a homemade mind-talk tape I later recorded. All about my successful journey and new life. 

Freak snow flurries hit my face while I finished loading the trailer. 

Déjà vu? I hauled out of my spiritual community without a cell phone; those mountains were off the grid. I was to meet then drive in tandem with a friend also moving to San Deigo. Who had a cell. Traffic separated us. I called from my south Utah motel room that night. Her cell was dead. Days later I learned that her truck died at Vegas. 

I pushed on, arriving at a California Weigh Station. They stopped cars with trailers so, before they got to my little rig, I read the forbidden-cargo signs. Thinking quick, I threw a map over the cooler, another one over the jade plant. Shoved the brown bag under the seat. Told Sita to hold all song and covered her cage with a pillow. 

The inspector asked, “Any animals, fruit or plants, Ma-am?” 

I’d have to lie, even if only by omission. Even if it tipped my overburdened karma scales. So I waived my hand at the mess. “I don’t see any, do you?” I asked.

He grunted, checked off a list on his clip board. And waved me out. 

That was how I’d crossed into the land of dreams. 

My friend moved in with her boyfriend. Bookie was long gone to the Great Golf Course in the Sky. I had no prospects (other than big hopes) and less-than no money. Things were tight. 

But, like Old Daddy always said. “Dame Fortune smiles on me.”

Doors opened. Not like after my marriage and divorce. Those doors hit me on the nose coming in, and you-know-where going out. 

Within a week I rented a studio near the beach. Got a temp-to-hire job. Made friends at a singles dance. Began to rebuild strength after years of overwork. Grew my nest-egg with pickings from an easy job and booming economy. 

But what had that star really given me on that snowy, summer's eve back in Michigan?

The best thing, ever, that's what. Experience and time. To finally get what Old Daddy tried, over and over, to nurture in me. Resilience.

“Like a bolt out of the blue.”

FACT: The nearest star is 4.25 light-years away.
FICTION: It takes about nine years for a wish on that star to come true.
STRANGER-THAN-FICTION: Her dream took nineteen years. Reckons her star was 9.5 light-years from Earth.
MORE STRANGE: She found her star and wished, again, after her first wish came true nineteen years ago. Her second wish came true.
NEXT WISH? Who knows. Even with climate change, she doubts it'll snow on this beach. But her dazzling friend will reappear, flurries or no. Of that, she's sure. Because, after all these years, her heart is still in her dreams.

Image credit: cocoparisienne at Pixabay.com
Lyrics (partial): When You Wish Upon a Star by Cliff Edwards

Story © by KT Fabler - thanks for reading. More stories here.