A Solemn Oath They Swore

By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

A simple motor trip, it was, from Atlanta to a north Virginian town, and could be construed as a “Girly Trip” because it was “just us girls.” Two “ladies of a certain age,” (one a grandma already and one very nearly); the daughter of one was within about three weeks of bearing her first child, whose gender had not yet been revealed.

Now, like it or not, we’re not naming names. Go read somebody else’s column if all you want is a bunch of names. We’re going for the surprise factor.

The oldest of the “girls” swore she’d never been in quite such an adventure. Traveling with husbands has its place, but when its “just us girls,” frequent stops are not even questioned. They could make a simple pit stop last an hour by stretching, and a bottle of ice tea (something they’d never buy at home) was pure elixir on the road.

“Want me to drive?”

“You wanna drive?”

“I really don’t care, but I might be sleepy later, so let me drive now.”

“Fine with me,” and the keys arch across the tarmac.

“Good catch.”

“You’d be surprised how good a basketball player I was once.”

“I bet I would.”

The cell phone, once beyond our wildest fantasies, is now a dire necessity on a long road trip, especially for a bunch of women.

Here’s another trip-wire that could lead to trouble. Certainly, women can change a tire or check the oil, but why risk white clothes and split nails when you?ve got an already dirty, scraggly-nailed male, or a AAA membership card at hand?

A cell phone rang, and a hasty rummage through shoulder bags found it. The others watched with concern as facial expressions and finally tears told the story: A favorite aunt was dying of cancer in Ohio, and a very extended family was trying to work out complex details for everyone.

Meanwhile a second cell was pressed into duty, notes were made, noses blown, and the sobs from the back seat finally ran dry.

The travel party was not far from the first night’s stop, and saw ahead the signs for the Edelweiss Restaurant, at Exit 205, off I-81, about halfway between Lexington and Staunton.

The little log cabin is about 25 years old, but looks as though it were just set down intact on a hillside of blue spruce and dark pines like the hillside it remembers in Bayern. Outstanding German food, someone squeezing an accordion, a fire on the hearth, “Edelweiss”s idea of lunch is a main dish” wurst? schnitzel? ? PLUS at least five sides like sauerkraut, green beans, red cabbage, potato salad, and divine fresh-baked bread.

The week passed quickly, with one grandma playing with her grandchildren, the other driving to Ohio for a truly painful farewell to a loved one. The baby stuff in that overloaded SUV was heaved into the townhouse, to be dealt with whenever. The expectant mother is now reunited with her expectant counterpoint, and both the grandmother-to-be and her, uh, mentor; yeah, that’s it, her mentor take to the road again.

It’s a long ride, nearly 700 miles, and whole life histories are swapped. They named the baby a dozen times, and he or she seemed to be drawing farther and farther behind. Its soon-to-be grandmother would have screeched into a U-turn at every opportunity, but realized her name WOULD get into the paper then.

So here’s where discretion becomes imperative, and where all that was left of the traveling quartet was to swear themselves to secrecy, even shaking hands to seal the deal. This was NOT going to go anywhere outside that SUV, on threat of somebody being snatched bald, as they say here in the South.

The senior of the group was driving when the SUV’s well-running engine suddenly dropped a throb. Then it happened again, just the slightest hesitation before restoring full power.

“I think we have a problem,” the driver said stupidly.

“Look at the gas gauge,” said the wife of the car’s owner. “When did we buy gas?”

‘I don’t know, but what a cheery bright red that light is,” said the driver, the kind of glib remark that would not have amused her husband.

Fortunately an exit ramp was right ahead of the hapless pair and it was easy to pull well off the Interstate. The car’s co-owner dug out her phone and her AAA card and made the call.

Of course, it required frequent repetitions:

“We’re on I-81, Exit 109, southbound (west bound? It’s 45-degree angle) at Exit 109.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

“Interstate I-81.”

“Town? What town? We can’t see a town from here.”

“No, Exit 109 on I-81. The license is...”

Finally, she appeared to have gotten through, and the “girls” sat in the car to wait. Had it been the two husbands, both would have been deathly silent, blaming the other and wishing him leprosy.

But the two women relaxed, found some crackers and left-over iced tea. The driver insisted it was her fault, that the driver is ultimately responsible for everything that goes on in the car while she was driving.

The other protested politely: “It’s our car; I should have checked on it.”

Neither was uptight. It was one of those things, the kind of mistake that wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Too bad that the husbands weren’t there to see how this works.

A half hour passed, more tales told, and one had just said, “I’ll call again,” when there was the unmistakable rattle of the gas cap being undone.

Where did he come from? The women were sitting staring straight ahead, occasionally checking side windows and constantly monitoring rearview mirrors. When they asked him how he got here, he looked incredulously.

“My truck’s over there, ma’am,” and he pointed to a rusty old truck on the far northbound lane. He had run across all four lanes plus median and emergency lanes, carrying a five-gallon container of gasoline in each hand.

The day was bright, thank heaven. This man was formidable, as the French say: an already dirty, scraggly-nailed male, with the filthiest head of dreadlocks our travelers had ever seen. On a white guy.

In minutes, the journey resumed and both women knew they’d swap their oath in the right circumstances. Say, to a genuine German meal or the makings of a good story.