Stalagmites, Chevy Chase, and Leopard Skin by Kim Smith    

My husband turned forty this year and to surprise him I planned a trip across the country. He had been talking about seeing the Grand Canyon since we met in college, and as life is too short not to live one’s dreams, I bit the bullet and began an intimate relationship with priceline.com.

We had taken a smaller, more abbreviated version of this journey shortly after we had been married when our oldest child was only ten months old. Even back then, this itch to see the country that my husband had, needed to be scratched. We had no money. We didn’t have AAA or a credit card, but that didn’t matter. The thought never even entered our minds that we could break down or have a medical emergency. It has been said that youth is wasted on the young. I beg to differ. We were easily pleased and enthusiastic. Sharing a hamburger and a Pepsi at Burger King was enough. Less was truly more. Our son Ryan slept in his baby seat during the car ride, then stayed awake all night long. We didn’t care. We were young then, poor, but young. We had a clear windshield and a full tank of gas. What more we could need?

Now, fifteen years later with six children traveling in a Dodge Durango, we were attempting once again to scratch this itch and make it last. It took me approximately a week to pack all eight of us and I completed this task with the efficiency of a marine recruit. I packed very light— only the essentials. My husband’s only job was to deal with our rented Dodge Durango. He rented it for a month as it was cheaper. He picked up our new shiny vehicle five days before we actually left. Each day he drove it to work and back while his 1995 jeep sat neglected in the driveway, much like an old dog when a new puppy enters the home. All eight compact suitcases sat  awaiting their transfer, stacked neatly like Legos in the corner of the living room. I would zip and unzip, checking, and rechecking each bundle to make sure that we all would have what we needed for our upcoming adventure.  

The day finally arrived after what seemed like an endless wait. I found two teenagers to watch our three dogs. I had cleaned the house and gotten rid of most of the food in the frig. I called the post office and requested that they hold our mail for three weeks. All we needed to do now was to get the kids in the car and off we went. As I went to go call the kids upstairs to get in the car, I realized that my neatly stacked pile of legos had not moved. My husband, while apparently under the influence of vacation, had not packed the car after work the last night, or the night before, or the night before that. He arose leisurely that morning, quite happy to be officially off, and staggered into the kitchen in his moose pajamas for a Pepsi and a bagel. There I stood staring at my husband with his morning hair making a fresh pile of crumbs on my just-windexed counter top. I had packed eight people, made all of the necessary phone calls, and found responsible dog-sitters. I had packed snacks for the trip and stocked myself up all of the essentials such as Nyquil, Kleenex, and Children’s Tylenol. This was maternal efficiency at its best.      

So there I stood, while the anger molecules raced through my veins as I pondered the thought of even the most mild of delays. My efficiency, my efforts, and my overall foolproof plan had been undermined. I felt my face get red. My cheeks felt hot. In comes my husband from the driveway, arms flailing, with some very choice words leaving his mouth. “It just won’t fit,” he confesses. “There is no way.” At this point I was hearing a ghost voice from my distant past. It was my Lamaze teacher as she was telling me to breathe. “Breathe deeply,” the voice said. “Shut up!” I responded to the voice. It didn’t work then and it wasn’t going to work now either.

Before I knew what was happening, my husband was whipping through the phone book trying to find a store who sold turtles for the top of the car. Finally he found one, but it was in Burlington, an hour drive each way from where we live.  This was going to be a while. The mental tape of how this whole thing could have been prevented had my husband done the only job delegated to him days ago, needed to be shut off if I was to be prevented from being front page news.

Then, hours later, after swallowing several extra-strength Tylenol, we pulled out of the driveway in our rented Dodge Durango with the newest, most innovative and aerodynamic Thule turtle on the roof. We would now get six miles to the gallon as opposed to the eight we would have gotten without this black travel beast bolted to the roof rack.

After landing in New Paltz for a brief visit with the family our first destination was Gettysburg. The sun was shining and we were full of enthusiasm and optimism for the vacation ahead of us. This leg of the journey was a short jaunt, a mere foreshadowing of what lie ahead.  The kids made a bee-line for the indoor pool and I headed up to the room to order a pizza. Life was good.

The next day, we woke the kids up to head down to the lobby for our complimentary continental breakfast. One thing that is so nice about children is that they delight in the simple pleasures in life. Especially the younger ones were thrilled to experience the cereal wheel. This was a canister containing individual tubes of different cereal choices ranging from Shredded Wheat all the way to high-octane Fruit Loops. They could spin it around and then choose what they wanted by releasing the little white plastic thing on the bottom, or they could do more of a breakfast roulette and close their eyes prior to the big spin. They were becoming the new, miniature Vana Whites of the Holiday Inn Express’ continental breakfast bar.

After the last glass of juice had been downed, and our pockets filled with the apples and bananas from the fruit basket, we jumped in the car and began the next leg of our journey. Today we were headed for West Virginia. As this trip was a surprise for my husband, I was the one who planned it all and spent hours looking at the map of the United States using my fingers for a guide. We had done the Vermont to Florida trip which can be done in two days. As this was quite a while ago, I took my thumb and forefinger and kind of inched my way down the map. I then did the same thing only heading south, then west. This wouldn’t be hard. We will have an ambitious day tomorrow then stay two days in Memphis  to catch our breath. Not a big deal.

After the third hour in the car, we were still in Maryland. I didn’t remember Maryland being involved. I guess I forgot about that state. Maybe I looked at the wrong map. It was beautiful though, very mountainous. Finally we entered West Virginia where we would spend the next four hours of our valuable life space looking out the window at mountains. I like mountains, well, at least  for the first two hours. It was when I began to hear a soft rendition of the theme song for the movie Deliverance that it became clear to me that I was, and would always be, a New England snob.     

This time we didn’t jump out of the car with as much zip, but rather climbed out, up and over coloring books, portable dvd players, and empty pretzel bags. I headed for the front desk armed with my copy of our Priceline travel itinerary. I explained to the front desk attendant that I had called two weeks prior to make sure that our two rooms were adjoined. “Sorry Mam,” he said. “We are booked and when you book on line you get what is left over. Not only are you in separate rooms, but you are on separate floors as well. So sorry, Mam.” “Can you recommend a good Chinese take-out place?” I asked. Chinese food in West Virginia? Can you say oxymoron?

I realized right then and there that it was time to raise my tolerance and lower the bar . . . None of us ended up in the ER from Botulism or E. Coli issues. None of the neighborhood cats appeared to be missing. It was a relatively good Chinese food experience all and all.

O.K., time to wake up and get back in the not-very-new-looking-anymore Dodge Durango. This would be another ambitious leg of our journey. We were going to try to make it all the way to Memphis. Actually, we had to make it all the way to Memphis as I had pre-paid for reservations via the Priceline.com travel plan. We would then visit Graceland, as our girls are all Elvis fans, then stay for two nights so that we could catch our breath a bit before continuing on. So off we went, first through Kentucky which was chock full of gorgeous horse farms. The white fences just rolled with the hills as if in an intimate relationship with each other. It was very pretty, far out in the land of Lincoln. All of the sudden, my husband noticed a sign for the Mammoth caves. “I’ve heard about those. They are even in the front of my atlas.” As he eagerly flipped through the atlas, while holding a comfortable cruising speed of seventy-five mph, I looked at the clock and noticed that it was already 4:20 and most parks close at 5:00 pm. My wide-eyed husband was determined to see the caves whether the rest of us cared or not. I was just eager for him to stop the car so we could stretch our legs. I really didn’t care where as long as we could salvage a few minutes of this sunny, warm day. My husband is sort of like a car camel. He can drive forever and not eat, pee, or stretch. I am just not cut from this cloth. To begin with, I am an airplane person, not a car person. I prefer to fly, then plant myself beneath a palm tree and not move for hours. I can listen to the ocean, look out into the ocean, and sit near the ocean for hours, contemplating life or contemplating nothing. Not so for my betrothed.

As soon we passed Dinoworld and Big Jake’s Rock Store, we began to see signs for Mammoth Caves National Park. At this point it was 4:35 and the clock was ticking even with the recent time change in our favor. I have never seen my husband so focused. He had this whole cross country trip thing building within him for years and he was on a mission to stop at each and every tourist trap on or off the highway. Now that we have six kids, this travel energy has escalated to a point that some may consider bordering on neurosis. We made the turn and headed down the neatly groomed road towards the Mammoth Caves. It turned out to be a long road with lots of signs to provide security for anyone who may think they could be lost. My husband’s eyes got bigger. He saw a parking lot in the distance. The clock said 4:42 and continued to tick. “I hope we don’t have trouble parking,” I said in jest. A slight tilt of the head and a look similar to that of Anakin Skywalker quieted my chuckle immediately. This was apparently not a funny situation. From my perspective, Chevy Chase had crossed over to psychotic right in our very own, actually rented, Dodge Durango.  

We pulled into the parking lot with 11 minutes to spare and literally ran to the Visitor’s Center. When we walked in there was a ranger there to greet us. She was all dressed in earth tones with a Smokey the Bear hat on and a very official looking badge on. “Hello,” she said, “Are you here for a tour of the caves?” “Yes,” I answered, while looking over at my husband with affection. “Well,” she said, “I’m sorry, but the last tour for the day left fifteen minutes ago. You are welcome to enjoy the gift shop until we close in ten minutes.”

I stood there paralyzed unable to look at Chevy. We had driven all the way from Vermont with six children and Wally World was closed.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Chevy suggested through gritted teeth. My gentle, t-ball coach of a husband was having an out-of-body experience. He was scaring me. Who was this man and what has he done with my husband?  “Kids, lets go for a walk,” he repeated. Off we walked at a rapid pace like anxious little ducklings behind the Papa duck.

“Isn’t this beautiful!” Chevy exclaimed, crossing back over to a more socially acceptable tempermant. It didn’t seem genuine. As our daughters stood there studying   the eight species of bats that inhabit the caves, and who were probably yawning at this very moment preparing to venture out and dine on the area insects, my husband wandered down towards one of the caves. He began to wrestle with a very large chain that hung between two cement posts. “Got it,” he said, “Let’s go.” “Let’s go where Daddy?” our youngest asked. “Into the cave honey. We are just going to take a quick self-guided tour since we drove all this way.” “But the lady said it was closed,” the five-year-old responded. “Oh honey, it’s all right. The lady just meant that it was closed for tours. It’s ok to take a quick peek,” he explained as he tripped over the rather large iron chain.

“Darling,” I said, “this isn’t good role-modeling.” “Oh, Sweetheart, it’s fine,” he said with that same voice that Chevy Chase had when he held the Tilt-o-Whorl operator of Wally World by gun point, forcing him to allow his family into the closed Wally World and to go on the rides. I had passed scared and moved a little closer towards terrified. All I could think of were bats and jail. Neither was a good option, especially down here, no offense to Kentucky. I never should have seen My Cousin Vinny.

We could all get tossed into the pokey, never to be seen or heard from again. I really hoped that a ranger did not decide to do a last minute sweep of the park. On the other hand, how many people break their way into caves infested with eight species of bats? Probably not many.

After the chain had been re-hooked onto it’s rightful place on the cement post, we headed up to the Mammoth Caves Café. They had an additional little gift shop there. I bought a magnet just to remember our ten minute experience. I couldn’t bring myself to by a t-shirt as t-shirts need to be earned. Maybe some day.

For the first time in several days, I did not mind getting back in the car, as I was thankful it was not a prison bus.

 As we approached Lexington, however, the beautiful fences, rolling pasture, and stalagmites gave way to rows and rows of Stepford Wives developments. It almost made me feel like stopping to borrow an egg. The neighborhoods just had that egg-borrowing look. In fact, the houses were so close together that you really wouldn’t have to make that big trek next door. You could just slide the window open with your hand out and yell. I could just picture myself coming in from having a couple of glasses of wine with my women friends and not being able to tell which house was mine. I would have to leave some kind of personal item tied to the front door handle or something. You can’t even tie anything to the mailboxes. There are rules about mailboxes. I know this because we have friends who live in a Stepford Wives development in North Carolina. Every mailbox is black with a gold band around it. So, if you were a real rebel and painted your mailbox purple or you went to the Home Depot and got one in the shape of a barn, you would most definitely suffer a mailbox penalty.  The severity of the mailbox penalty could vary based on size and shape. A mailbox having any noticeable degree of uniqueness, creativity, or artistic quality could be punishable by expulsion from the development. The Stepford Wives have an actual mailbox clause written in to the contract once you are allowed to purchase a home in one of their developments. It says, “ that you must forever and from this day forward to have no individuality or personal expression involved with the cosmetic design of your house, property, or mailbox. Failure to comply could result in severe consequences. Resistance is futile.” I wondered what the Stepford Wives would do if they found out one of their sons were wearing their lingerie to school?

Once we had departed from the sea of conformity, we ventured into the endless state of Tennessee. This is a very long, rectangular state for those who are as unfamiliar with our nation’s geometry as I am. Being

from New England, I am used to being able to meet someone for lunch in a neighboring state and still make it back in time to meet the school bus. It is not that way in the rest of our wonderful, very diverse country. Tennessee made me think of that little sticker on the side mirror of a car that says, “objects may appear closer than they are in reality.”

When initially booking this trip, I borrowed my ten-year-old’s school planner that happened to have a map of the United States in the front. The states all looked very close together and they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. At no time during this process did I realize that topography may be an issue, so lakes, mountains, or large areas with the most poisonous and deadly snakes remained to be not an issue. We trudged forward like a sturdy, northern Vermont snowplow.

After a while we decided to stop for dinner. We were in the middle of East Slobovia and had been there for approximately three or four hours. We realized that a Pizza Hut or Ponderosa was not going to appear as a welcomed hallucination, so we were left with the Log Cabin Inn, and a true to life My Cousin Vinny experience. This town had only one stop sign and a population in the double digits. We climbed out of the car and dragged our weary, hungry bodies into this restaurant. As the door creaked open, we noticed that every head turned and looked in our direction. A man armed with menus walk slowly toward us and asked, “So, where ya all from. Yer not from these parts.” Trying very hard to practice solid thought control and block the flashbacks of the movie when the two young men got arrested, thrown in jail, and threatened with a murder charge, I came out with a very soft, “We are from Vermont.” The host walked us in to the dining room which was separated from the entrance area by an invisible force field. We walked around the other tables to get to ours which would have been a direct line had we walked right up the middle, but we got the feeling that was a no-no. So we followed our host/restaurant guide and sat down.

The kids immediately opened up their menus as they were fairly ravenous at this point and looking forward to something a little different from the stale pretzels they had been chewing on most of the day. This could be a good experience I thought to myself. It might even make a good short story someday, that is, if we live to tell the tale. I looked to my right and there was a father and his teenage son, clad in denim jackets and liberated from any sort of recent shower experience, sitting there looking at us with laser vision. They were in a trance and this trance would not be broken until we left. We have all had moments when we have been caught staring. Usually, the very second that the person catches us staring and makes eye contact, we immediately break free, turning our heads away in embarrassment, then continue to overcompensate for this error by making an effort to look in the exact opposite direction for the remainder of the dinner. These two had obviously not been taught this game. They had never played and therefore did not know the rules and continued to stare while I picked off each deep fried leaf of our bloomin’ onion appetizer.

Next to the gun club members, we had Yancy Tucker, who looked like he had taken a break from boot-leggin’ and made that once-a-year trek down the mountain for his fried chicken. He was clad in overalls with one strap unhinged and hanging in a very relaxed fashion down his back. Underneath was a stained white t-shirt which matched his very long white beard. He kind of reminded me of that guy on the Dukes of Hazard when I was a kid. He apparently also found us interesting, as he could not break his trance either. All eyes were very much fixed on us. I looked down to see if I had any schmutz on my shirt that maybe I hadn’t noticed, you know, coffee stains, strawberry jam from this morning, that kind of thing. We no longer have babies spitting up on me so that couldn’t be it.

As the waitress came and placed our dinners before us, in between her many conversations with her regular customers, I noticed the couple who was seated directed across from us. She was probably in her early sixties, though not signing her name to it. She was draped in leopard skin from head to toe. She even had leopard skin bows on her black, spiked heels. Her platinum blonde hair told me that she was a lady who liked to live a little. She was a lady with a past and I was intrigued by her. Her very presence in the room told a story and I wanted to know every detail. This woman with a past did not smile. She only stared just like everyone else in the room. It was as if their had been a meeting prior to our arrival. The person in charge of the meeting, the Stare Master, had directed everyone in the Stare Club to focus on anyone new in the room and to hold that stare as long as possible. If you break your stare you lose points and if you break your stare for any length of time then you are disqualified all together. The woman with a past was obviously an advanced starer and a veteran of the club and this particular restaurant. She sat there in her leopard skin outfit, dressed like Westchester gone Fried Green Tomatoes, taking in every detail. She was as intrigued by me as I was by her. The only difference was that I was studying her by way of my peripheral vision every time someone asked to pass the ketchup. Leopard Lady was looking straight ahead with her leopard eyes. I am not sure if it was an inherent confidence she had within her that prevented her from caring about what anyone may think, or a complete lack of social skills. Either way, she was fixed on me.

Just a few seconds later, her husband walked in and joined her. He was clad in a very colorful, geometric, Bill Cosby looking sweater. He reminded me of someone but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Who did this guy look like?  When my husband returned from his trip to the restroom, he gently leaned across the table and whispered in my ear, “Don’t look now, but doesn’t that guy over there look like the Heat Miser in the Christmas special?” That’s it. That is so exactly it. Leopard Lady’s husband was the Heat Miser. His wild tufts of thinning hair gently moving with the breeze caused by the heat vents. Not only was the Heat Miser equally as intriguing, but he was also a veteran of the Stare Club and advanced with his disciplined trance and staring techniques. I wanted to know about him, too, where he came from, where they were on there way to, and what they did for a living. I would do anything for this information.

The stare energy from all three directions was now gaining terrific strength and all at once my husband declared, “O.K., time to go.” We left some straggling french fries and some unidentified side dishes and carefully headed for the door. The stare energy followed us. We could feel it against our backs as we walked out the door. The very second we got into our Dodge Durango the teenager said, “Was it just me or did it seem that everybody was staring at us in that place?” Then the rest of them chimed in, “Yeah Mom, why was everybody staring at us in there?” The five-year old answered for us, “Because we’re from Vermont . .  . a . . duh . . .”

After confirming with the group that we had indeed met the Heat Miser up close and personal, we headed for Memphis, home of the King.

Stay tuned next time for Cross Country trip Part II . . .

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