Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

In the Rubble

I’m not really a passenger kind of person.

So, I found myself stretched to capacity when the Bohemian stopped me in my mid-driver’s side entry to my vehicle, with what he thought was a simple question: “Can I drive?”

It was a logical suggestion. We were en route to the airport, where Jeb and I would depart on a trip to California. We had established that the Bohemian would drive my car to pick up Jeb and I upon our return. With us all there together, it made sense for him to suggest he get a trial run behind the wheel.

Little did he know that I’d been silently going through some sort of inner demolition, the proverbial wrecking ball had been busting boundaries all day.

I had entrusted this man to the whereabouts of my keys – home and vehicle. I had granted him the full access pass. Yes, I wanted his airport escort. But this entailed me letting him drive my car. No one drives my car.

It may sound ridiculous to some (maybe even to the Bohemian, though he made not a peep as I walked him through the labyrinth of how he was to actually get the keys to my car in order to drive it. I wanted them stashed inside my house, not kept in his possession while I was away.).

The man was patient and even finished the last few words of my sentence – in an agreeing tone, mind you, of affirming teamwork, not annoyance – when I reminded him about not parking the car too close to the house because the cats (in unison) “jump on the hood.” And, yes, he knew, it’s best to always lock the car with the key from the outside so you don’t accidentally lock your keys in the car. Yep, he was nodding. Smiling. Uh-huh.

courtesy of Caitlinator

Me and my statements of the obvious. So, was it obvious that I gulped and stammered when he asked if he could drive us to the airport? Not only would he be driving my car, but I would become a passenger.

One more swing of the wrecking ball (though let’s not even say the word “wreck” in this circumstance) and there I was buckling up in the passenger seat with squirming knees at the glovebox. I must have been obvious. Jeb felt my discomfort and chimed in from the back seat “I don’t think this is such a good idea.” He’d never seen anyone else drive my car, either.

Uncomfortable, maybe, but I was surrendered. Bring on the rubble.

I tell Jeb the Bohemian is a professional driver (this is true). That he used to drive a semi with big loads through the city of Chicago. And as we ease out on to the road the Bohemian cheerily quips, “Safety first.”

As I said, I’m not a passenger kind of person. So I was left to wonder as he steadily steered us through the night, how it came to be that there was a man escorting me to the airport. That he was driving my car and I was letting him. That I had calmed enough to crack a few jokes and make him laugh, leaving Jeb to exclaim from the backseat “Don’t distract him, Mom!”

But by mid-trip the Bohemian was so smooth that we’d all calmed down. Jeb even admitted, “Hey, he’s pretty good.” And I think the same when I ask him what he wants from California, and without a moment’s thought, just says, “you and Jeb.”

And so it went. A series of surprising views in the aftermath of the wrecking ball.

Instead of dropping us, curbside, in the unloading zone by the ticket counter, he suggests parking and walking us to check in. He wheels the suitcase all the way, ushering it through every attendant we encounter until it finally gets put on the conveyor belt toward our plane.

And once we get to the security check point, our final hugs aren’t the end of his presence. He lingers by the wall to watch us move through the maze of ID check, shoe removal and the emptying of quart-sized ziplocs into baskets.

He stays until the final glance. Our last exchange before the security personnel crowds out the Bohemian from my view. I smile and give a small wave. His left hand is near his heart, or maybe it’s just my imagination.

But I don’t think I’m dreaming. He walked with us as far as possible. And he stayed until he couldn’t see us anymore.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 1 Comment

Assisted Lift

With the crescendo of a drumroll build-up in my last posting, I announced that the Archives was lifting anchor on a travel adventure and then left you with two days of silence.

Not an intentional bait and switch. Just the time that lapsed between lift off and landing.

Having now touched down in new terrain, I’m orienting myself, even if my electronic devices can’t quite get their bearings. My whereabouts are in a small pocket of the world discreetly out of range. My laptop searches, but can’t seem to sync to my locale, the clock still stuck in HST time. Cell phone screen states No Service.

Yes, I have internet access. Yes, I have WordPress. But everything is just a little different from the usual.

At 4am, I leave my bed and slide my hands on dark walls in search of light switches. Try not to trip at unfamiliar corners and wake the house’s sleeping inhabitants. Tip toe quietly to a coffee maker I don’t know how to use. Determine that this post will be decaffeinated.

But in the time it’s taken to express this new writing hour experience, my father has already risen. He sees me tucked up on the couch, computer in my lap. We both know why we are up before the sun. Words can be saved for our keyboards.

In a short time the smell of coffee fills the house. He brings me a mug, smiles, and goes back to his writing room.

I sit here with the sound of 4am in a new place. The quiet of my writing hour hums differently here. The coffee flavor’s not the same. And I like this.

I sit in this new world, culling the silence for something to share.

And what arises is Heavy. Bend your knees.

In the sacred space of remote countryside, my father and I quietly dedicating ourselves to the early morning muse, what comes up for me is the American Airlines tag that Jeb found at the airport yesterday.

There was an empty conveyor belt in motion at baggage claim, when suddenly a lone tag emerged from the black fringed mouth. It gave an implicit warning: “Heavy. Assisted lift may be required.”

My incessant metaphorical mind can’t resist the cautionary font, the universal graphic of bent knees.

Oh what fun to play with the meaning behind claiming your baggage. The significance of a tag instead of a suitcase coming down the conveyor belt. The warning of heavy contents, the suggestion of assistance. Illustrated safety tips on ways to carry the load.

What kind of sign is this? And what does it mean if the tag is freed from its bag?

I don’t know why I’m writing about this. And for the record, I’m not, personally, feeling any heavy baggage or need for an assisted lift. I’m feeling rather light, actually. Maybe I’m like this tag, an escapee, newly untethered.

Maybe the tag is just a random tag – no meaning, whatsoever.  It could make good fire starter in my father’s wood stove.

Today’s post, not exactly exotic. No major travel adventure to recount or stunning photographs to share. But here I am.  This morning’s chronicle from a new writing chair, fueled by a different brand of coffee.

My first morning in California before sunrise.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Archives Lifts Anchor

The writing these days seems to be taking the form of lists rather than poetry.

Yes, in 48 hours, Jeb and I will see lift off, as we venture from of our little island into the great wide world. Or at least California, which to Jeb is like the promised land. Full of free time (no school), favorite family members, and the chance of snow, our annual trip to the Golden State is one where the countdown begins around October.

As the Archives hits the road, I’m hoping to shift from packing lists to some inspired pieces, chronicling new landscapes. My wanderlust has been landlocked for a year now and it’s time to lift the anchor.

For those of you that are following the Archives, you get to tag along! It’ll be a virtual tour into uncharted waters.

I’d like to promise that it will be filled with fresh colors, new plant life, and different lighting. That it’ll be chock-full of inspired insight. But the truth is, when one sets sail upon a journey, it’s always into uncharted waters, and one never knows what it will yield.

All the more adventurous!

So here’s to the last of the ‘to pack’ items crossed off the list. We’re about to embark into new territory.

Hang on and let go!