Not Without My Father: One Woman's 444-Mile Walk of the Natchez Trace (21 page)

I mopped my sweat-stained seat with a spare shirt. The gods of the Natchez Trace were legendary for extremes. They didn’t spare me. My first days, I walked through pellets of sleet. Temperatures approached ninety degrees on my next-to-last fifteen mile day. Warmth helped with stiff joints and sore muscles. I stooped to take a picture at milepost 400 and almost levitated. When my parents found me at milepost 410, my only care was the joy that buzzed through my core. In spite of obstacles and crippling pain, I was almost to Nashville.

Creekview Farm, our last stop, was an outfitted house. After weeks of sharing bedrooms and cramming our stuff into small suites, we spread out in our own spaces, prepared dinner in a pristine kitchen and rocked on a screened porch. I walked across the threshold and found a home.

While I experienced rapture, Dad dawdled at the foot of the stairs. He banged his fist against solid oak. “I can’t believe I got more stairs. Can’t I take this room down here?” He shuffled into the ground floor master bedroom.

“No. Kristen and Cooper have that room tonight, and somebody else reserved it tomorrow.”

Cooper was my two-year-old guideson. His parents asked me to play the role of guidemother before he was born. A guidemother harbored no religious component. Instead, Kristen wanted me to teach her child to embrace experiences, to be curious, to make choices that would enrich his life.

He was born in the Hudson River Valley, and he sent his mother into labor on my wedding anniversary. Given the circuitous flight patterns between my home and his, I almost never saw him. Online, he transformed from newborn troll to cherub.

His parents asked me to make him curious about the world. I wanted them to know they chose the best person to fill their son with wonder.

Maybe Kristen believed I was capable of being Cooper’s guidemother because I always cheered her dreams. We met when we were cast in the same play. Kristen was years younger, but we forged a friendship that survived her New York relocation. Even though I knew the long odds of winning theatrical parts, I told her not to give up, to go after what she wanted.

And, in the cast of a psychedelic Richard Foreman show, she met a man. And she married him. Her choice had nothing to do with me, but when she first told me about him, I exclaimed, “Forget everyone else. This is the man you should be with.” He worshipped her, nourished her tender spirit and fought for her.

Because of our connection, Kristen wanted Cooper to walk a portion of the Natchez Trace with me. As soon as she messaged me with their schedule, I whiplashed between elation and panic. A curious toddler weaving alongside a federal highway? Without a guard rail or any protection from oncoming vehicles? I imagined tabloid stories and winced:

- Guidemother Jailed In Child Endangerment Case. Should She Be Stoned? -

While I waited for Kristen and Cooper, I relived my journey. Twelve different bedrooms in a month. Twelve sets of strangers befriended. Twelve kinds of hospitality. Even twelve brands of toilet paper.

Twelve times twelve times twelve times…….the math leaked into every part of me. I collapsed on the quilted bed, spent by the arithmetic of change. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to Dad. He flipped through TV channels, alternating static and random shows. “Thanks for sticking it out on this adventure, Dad,” I whispered. “For helping me understand me. And you. And Meriwether Lewis.”

Dad’s voice careened up the stairs. “Andra! I done sold that Mr. Fly a book earlier today, and you got to go sign it.”

“Dad—” I charged to the landing, my stained overshirt in one hand.

“Now, don’t you go getting undressed. I’m taking you back down there right now, and you’re gonna sign his book.”

“But Dad, I’m exhausted, and—”

He held up a hand. “I don’t wanna hear it. You’re looking at exhausted.” He tapped his own chest. “Right here. Now come on.”

I marched downstairs like I was thirteen. Outside, I flung myself into the passenger seat. “I don’t understand why we have to do this now.”

“Because. I promised him we would. Now just be quiet, Andra. You got to buck up.” He steered the car through the narrow gate. “You won’t get to be a famous author by disappointing people. By being too lazy to sign their books. You got to make time for people, even when you don’t feel like it. When you’re famous, and you’re gonna be famous, I don’t want no one saying your old daddy didn’t teach you how to treat people.”

“I’m not going to be famous, Dad. And besides, people don’t care about autographs anymore.”

“It’s not about that. You got to treat people like they matter. Like they’re the only thing in your world. You do that, and you’ll sell books, because people’ll remember how you treat ’em. Just like they can’t forget me.”

“Dad, I—”

But he shifted to something else. “Have I told you that story about when I was a Bible salesman and came on that farmer in south Georgia?”

I patted his arm. “Why don’t you tell it again, Dad?”

PERSONAL JESUS

Depeche Mode

I was good at selling books, ’cause I didn’t take no for an answer. Them Southwestern folks in Nashville taught us that. For three summers in college, I used their training to sell Bibles and other books door-to-door.

At my best, I never beat the lead guy. A stutterer, he was. He knocked on a door, and when the person said they wouldn’t buy a Bible, he said, “M-m-m-m-m-mind if I r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ead it to y-y-y-y-y-y-you?”

Most people bought something to get rid of him. I learned a lot from his technique.

Take the time I was in South Georgia.

It was a hundred and ten degrees in the shade, and I was driving around the countryside, trying to find a customer. I pulled up next to this farmer with a bunch of mules, and I got out and walked into his dusty field.

He wasn’t happy to see me. Before I could even ask him to buy the Good Book, he let loose with a stream of profanity. Cussed me up one side and down the other, and told me where I could stick my Bible.

I tried to get a word in edgewise, but he wasn’t having none of it. Kept cussing me ’til I was in my car.

Well, let me tell you, I was down on my quota for the week, and I didn’t know what I was gonna do. I saw one final house set off the road, and I pulled up in there, thinking I might find somebody home.

A gray-headed woman answered the door, surrounded by I-don’t-know-how-many kids. Husband wasn’t there, she said, but she listened while I gave her my sales speech and showed her my best family Bible. When I was done, she smiled. “Wait right here.”

She came back with fifty dollars, my sales requirement for the whole week. “I’ll take whatever this’ll buy.”

People say it takes a miracle to sell books. That may be true. But I know my daughter’s got miracles on her side, ’cause I done seen a few.

LOVE WALKS IN

Van Halen

“Don’t pinch him, Dad. Why do you always pinch?”

Cooper squirmed away from Dad and ran toward the bedroom, his distended diaper smacking chubby legs.

“Why don’t we get that nasty diaper off you, Coop.” Everything squished when he plopped on the hardwood floor, and I exercised a guidemother’s prerogative. “Okay. Your mother can do it.”

I left him picking his diaper’s foul edges and found Mom in the kitchen, scrubbing the counter. Dad slept in front of the television. Volume vibrated my eyeballs.

Cooper steamrolled between us in a fresh outfit spangled with trains. High octane rocket fuel and layers of skin. I ran my fingers through finespun blonde hair as he funnel-clouded toward Dad. Energy magnified the chasm between Life’s beginning and end. I hugged Mom. “I don’t want to lose you and Dad. I mean, I know that’s silly, because it’s inevitable, and I get that, but—”

“You’ve had your father almost thirty years longer than I had mine.”

I didn’t want to finish, because my dwindling walk represented the milestones of Life.

I stared into the morning of my last fifteen mile day. No more stiff, too-early wake-up calls. Five hours of peace and pain. The final night of my adventure with my father. We’d share our last country breakfast the next morning, before we loaded the car.

I wished Time worked like a mental camera, with a button to freeze the frames.

Cooper tugged my fingers, and I hoisted him to my hip. “Go see the elephants?”

Peacocks preened along the driveway.

“Those aren’t………no, wait.” I kissed his ear. “We can go see as many elephants as you want. Dad!” I shouted into the living room. “Get ready. I need to be on the road by ten.”

His belly sliced the front of his pajamas, and he gripped the leather sofa with both hands. Maybe he wanted to stop Time, too.

When he shuffled up the stairs, I ached with every labored step. “Dad. Do you need help?”

“Nah. I—” He slid his foot to another step and huffed. “I got it.”

When Mom dropped Kristen and Cooper to walk with me, Dad occupied his usual seat. The car listed to the right as they drove up the highway. “I just love your parents, Andra.” Kristen waited while I slipped Cooper into a cloth backpack. “Coop does, too. Your mom was telling him that story.”

“Which one?”

“About the teeny, tiny woman.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember that one from when I was a kid.”

“Coop laughed and laughed at her high-pitched voice.”

“I always did, too.”

She pushed chocolate-hued hair behind an ear. “Maybe they can be another set of grandparents to Cooper.”

I left him and his mother at the War of 1812 memorial. Another ten miles on my own.

I waved to every passing vehicle. Spring lit up the Trace like blinking holiday lights. Green obliterated brown. Bees floated around my head, drunk on nectar.

As I approached a bridge, I took out my phone to snap a record of a lone bicycle towing a cart. Cyclists rode the length of the Trace in a week. An extended winter kept me bereft of their company for much of my walk.

I stopped next to the abandoned bike. From my own Trace experience, I knew better than to explore under an overpass. The bike’s owner might be down there, using Nature as a toilet. For the same reason, I avoided a perusal of the trees ringing the highway. Everybody deserved a private place to relieve themselves.

Before I took another step, a man streaked from the woods, his arms raised over his head. “I’m the ghost of Meriwether Lewis,” he belted in deep monotone, while I stood frozen. Closer and closer, the ghost-man came. When he was two feet from me, he whipped one hand behind his back and produced a copy of my novel. “The ghost of Meriwether Lewis would like you to sign his book.”

I took in his fuzzy white beard. His sunburn. His cyclist lycra. “Is this your bicycle?”

He unsnapped his helmet and scratched his head. “Dang it. I promised your dad I’d hide in the woods and pretend I was the ghost of Meriwether Lewis. Don’t tell him I didn’t scare you.”

“Oh, you scared me. You don’t know how many brushes I’ve had with his ghost.” I took a drag from my CamelBak. “I’m Andra.”

“Tom. I’m riding the Trace for my seventy-fifth birthday.”

“All the way to Natchez?”

He handed me a pen and waited while I scrawled my name on a page. “Yeah. Figured an epic bike trip might be just the thing to ring in a milestone birthday, ’cause when you get to be my age, you never know which one of these’ll be the last.”

“Well, when you get to Natchez, you have to stay with Miss Ethel.”

“Oh, your dad already told me about her. Sounds like the perfect way to end this crazy adventure.”

“Or to begin one. She’s up for anything.”

He zipped my novel into his pack and shook my hand. “I’m looking forward to reading your book while I camp.”

I gripped his palm an extra second. “Whatever you do, I hope this year brings Life’s grandest moments.”

“Thanks. Hope I didn’t spook you.”

Before I could reassure him, he tipped his helmet and disappeared, while I scanned the skyline and listened for his pedal squeaks.

Birdsong trilled through trees.

I stared at nothing and wondered how many ghosts I met on the Natchez Trace.

My last fifteen mile day came too soon. And, just like when I started, my phone lit up with messages from readers all over the world.

I knew you had this.

You’re a badass.

Almost there! Tomorrow’s the day!

Make sure to savor it.

Mileposts ticked past, and I zipped my phone camera into my pocket and recorded the world with my senses instead. Cut grass and manure. Slight changes in slope. Migrating birds and tufts of pink on red bud trees. Life would no longer be hearing without listening, scents without smell. I licked my lips to taste salt film, and I ran my hands along white numbered mileposts.

I was full. I overflowed with the joy of Life.

But as I climbed into the car and stretched my legs, I didn’t mourn the end of daily fifteen mile meditations. The road blitzed by the window, a watercolor painting. Incomplete. Wherever our lives ended, I could still make memories with my father. Plan time with my parents. Add another pushpin to anticipate in Life’s timeline. We didn’t have to take five-week car trips. Experiences added up in hour-long walks. Weekend excursions. Memories we built into the busy monotony of Life.

Hours later, I prepared for my last Trace night. Dad fingered the chrome grille of a Model A and exclaimed, “That’s some car.”

It belonged to a couple celebrating their fiftieth anniversary by driving the Trace. I took pictures while Dad sold them a book.

Before they went inside, the woman slipped a wisp of green into my hand.

“A four leaf clover,” I breathed and caressed downy petals. “I can’t take this.”

“I find them all the time.” She smiled. “How do you think I’ve stayed married fifty years?”

I thanked her as she and her husband closed their bedroom door, the room Kristen and Cooper occupied the night before. While Dad settled at the television, I dragged myself upstairs for one final soak in the tub.