“Let’s drive down to New Orleans, get beignets and coffee, and drive home,” Dicka said one day. As if driving 1,200 miles from Minnesota to Louisiana for some fried donuts dredged in powdered sugar was nothing.
Husband, the ever-adventurer, agreed—the rest of the family too—and plugged a date into the shared calendar.
A mother’s job is to worry and assume anyone driving at night—and certainly through the night—is going to meet their Maker before finishing their journey. And so, my worries percolated the evening of Thursday, August 15, at 6:30 p.m. as we backed out of our driveway after work, bound for The Bayou State.
As the miles flew away in the wind behind our Toyota RAV, night fell. Uh-oh, here we go.
“We got it covered, Mom,” one of my progeny said. “We’re taking three-hour shifts driving. You can sleep.”
I played the audiobook of Lee Child’s The Secret (Jack Reacher #28) and hoped the story would keep the drivers awake and engaged because of all the genres assigned to it: mystery, thriller, military fiction, crime, suspense, and detective. And most importantly, I trusted it would keep me awake to control everyone’s nighttime behind-the-wheel vigilance and ensure the family’s safety.
But I dozed off in the backseat somewhere between Iowa and Missouri, and our stops for fuel and snacks in the middle of the night swirled into one ball of bleary-eyed choices in front of gas station coolers filled with drinks I had never heard of in locations I couldn’t discern.
“It seems like we’re in a foreign country,” Dicka said, pointing out bottles of juice in a gas station somewhere in Arkansas maybe.
And we drove on.
The sun climbed in the Tennessean sky on Friday morning, and I coaxed Husband, the current driver, to pull over at any exit in Memphis so we could walk out Marc Cohn’s 1991 song together. My man lives to humor me and did once again, choosing a random exit beyond Elvis Presley Boulevard to leave the freeway. He parked in the lot of a Hubbard’s Hardware store.
The five of us got out of the car, and I played the song on my phone as we strode in the bright sun, not the downpour the Grammy-nominated hit described:
Put on my blue suede shoes
And I boarded the plane
Touched down in the land of Delta Blues
In the middle of the pouring rain…
Then I’m walking in Memphis
Was walking with my feet, ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel
We dropped our bag of car garbage into the dumpster at the end of the lot as the song ran out. Tuneless, we headed back to our vehicle. The girls said I was silly. Husband said he was ready for the Crescent City. Any intrigue from Cohn’s haunting melodies and my idea for a literal walk in Memphis evaporated in the rising heat of the morning. But nostalgia buckled itself next to me for a good part of the ride anyway.
“You can check this one off your list,” I said to the girls as we crossed into Mississippi. Our Epic Family Road Trip of 2019 didn’t include the Magnolia State. After Arkansas, we had instead curved right for Texas that summer. But now here we were in the state that shared its name with the mighty river.
We stopped at a gas station in Pickens. A man, perched on the lowered tailgate of his pickup, chatted with a friend. A mound of watermelons—maybe forty or fifty ripened beauties—filled his truck’s bed, sweetening the convivial scene.
“We’re not in Minnesota anymore, Frodo,” one of the girls said, and our trip’s slogan was born.
Warm temperatures turned warmer as we traversed the United States all the way to the bottom of the map via 55 South.
“It’s a billboard fight for your soul,” Husband said, noting the numerous signs on our route that flipped from Jesus to adult entertainment—and back again.
We checked into the SpringHill Suites on New Orleans’ Canal Street around 2:30 p.m., our long drive complete. Now we had only twenty-four hours to let the car cool down and rest while we didn't.
Famished, we ventured to Stein’s Market & Deli, a recommendation from Wilson and Beatrice, in the Lower Garden District. Paint and posters obscured the little hole-in-the-wall’s front door, but we found it, a bell announcing our entry. Creaky wood floors in the scruffy east coast-style Jewish deli welcomed us, and we tucked into our muffulettas at a long wooden table we shared with strangers. Reviews mentioned the surly workers, but I asked for jazz recommendations from one of them, and he was kind enough to say the best sounds came from Frenchmen Street.
We left Stein’s and stepped into the ninety-three-degree heat of the day, pointed toward St. Charles Avenue. Sweat prickled our faces, but we had a streetcar to catch to view the most opulent homes in the city.
And those beignets? They were out there somewhere, waiting just for us.
*****
Come back next week for Part 2 of our New Orleans’ adventures. There might be an alligator involved.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.