Detours

This time of year dawn breaks in the small hours.  No one else was up.  There were still a few hours until the mandatory checkout – departure time.  My family slumbered while I was alone on the deck watching the sun’s rays pierce the horizon and paint the eastern sky pastel pink to purple.  Another great week with more memories stored away for later stories, laughter and some exaggerations.

Dreading the long drive home amid the melancholy that accompanies departures, I once again recalled the local legend of the white dog.  Without recounting the full legend, seeing a white dog upon departure solidifies the memories made, connects you to the spirits who have gone before and promises adventure and a sure return lies ahead.   I’ve never had a white dog but mused that Pup’s black fur might have turned white when she earned her place as an eternal guardian.

Just to enhance the mojo of legend, we ate our last beach meal at the Dawg House.  It is legendary in its own right and serves the best grits, swimming in butter, with eggs and country ham I’ve ever tasted (there may be no listings on the Weight Watchers web site for such succulent foods but I only partake on trips to the beach.)  There are some special restaurants where it is completely uncouth to ask about calories, carbs or saturated fats.

There was no delaying the long ride any longer.  The back roads of South Carolina gave way to interstates and then, hours later, to the mountains on the west end of North Carolina.  Crossing to Tennessee took more patience than was stored in my late day reserve when eight miles took almost two hours.  I grumbled about there needing to be an alternate route – a detour around such aggravation.  We finished the day in Cookeville – not nearly as far as we had hoped to go but thankful for a clean bed and a glass of wine.

On day two of the “long ride” the omens and wishes from the day before became real.  There are three units in this family vacation.  We did not journey in caravan.  There were texts flying about obstacles and events for each car as we pushed ahead.  The new memories promised by the white dog became a midnight visit to the emergency room, buckets of rain, road construction, and one person riding with an elevated leg.  Reaching Illinois felt like relief, like the goal was in sight even though we were hours from home.  However.

Not long after we left Paducah the Illinois road signs began to describe a traffic obstruction that was still fifty miles away.  Those signs recommended finding an alternate route – when we got closer, there were signs for a detour – perhaps yesterday’s wish was granted or the white dog was leading.

Detours are not expected and rarely loved.  This turned out to be the exception.

When we checked the map, we found that the road was going to take us through Tamaroa, Illinois – population about 750.  Tamaroa was the town where my mother was born and I had a vague recollection that it was where my grandmother was buried.  Minnie Guy Rice died from hemorrhaging after giving birth to my mom over ninety years ago.  Mom was orphaned and the aunts and uncles who raised her became a vivid part of my childhood memories.  But now we wanted to find my Grandmother.

Tamaroa is a friendly place.  Three folks were in rocking chairs, in one of the front yards of a house built scores of years ago, chatting and laughing.  We stopped, rolled down the window and asked about the cemetery.  We got directions to the cemetery.  They added a good bit of local lore and some general instruction about where the older graves could be found.  They offered warm smiles and friendly waives.  All thought of the time we were losing on the long ride home evaporated.  The adventure began.

We searched the cemetery and looked at every marker through several acres.  They were tilted at odd angles, worn through decades of sun and wind, and some were obscured by algae growth.  But the temperature was mild, the breeze was steady and serene like a ceiling fan set on low.  The old oaks and maples stood as sentinels for those who rested there and their leaves played a constant symphony that honored the remembrances of those who had passed.  Some had lived long – a few were born and died in a single day.  All are remembered there.

We did not find the final resting place for Minnie Rice but searching the grounds became the first step in a new adventure of connecting with the stories of family who we had never met.  Without the detour, our journey into the past would not have begun.  My mind spun back to the beach house deck at daybreak.  Looking west, opposite the pastel sky, the white dog had spoken.

If you see a white dog on a white beach playing with a person in a white shirt in front of a white boat under a white sky, your days will be full of adventure making new memories, connecting with the past and your return trip confirmed.

--td