"Come Hell or High Water"

In the spring of 1994, my friend Loren and I sat companionably in her youth-friendly basement dreamily designing our nuptials to our respective crushes. Curiously, the absence of any substantive Irish lineage did preclude my rather aberrant aspirations for a St. Patrick’s day ceremony, illumined by mint green hues to my then love- Lucas Glenn. Fortunately, my untenable Celtic pursuits were abandoned in the ensuing ten years, as was my infatuation with the enigmatic Lucas Glenn (who found his true soul mate in someone else). And Loren, well, she finally found her “Gilbert Blythe” and delightedly announced their engagement to me last October. Thus, quite literally -“come hell or high water” - I made it to Loren’s long anticipated wedding.

The story begins as Jason and I bravely foraged through the monsoon that beset the Philadelphia region, returning a day early from vacation in a valiant effort to attend this momentous occasion in Pittsburgh. As I sat, parked, on I-95 with a screaming toddler, enduring the interminable torrent of rain, I knew that this would all be worth the celebration of my childhood friend’s soul mate union. Undaunted and somewhat refreshed, the following morning, Jason, Eowyn and I embarked on the five hour journey to Pittsburgh, whereupon within one mile of our home, my car broke down. At this early hour, one might assume that a sympathetic neighbor would indulge the presence of my immobile car in her drive for a short time, until assistance arrived. Alas, I was not to be rewarded with such generosity, for she angrily urged me to “move my car immediately”, which of course was an (seemingly obvious) impossibility that pleased her exceedingly.

Finally, after reviving my car and setting out once again, we were optimistic that our arrival to the wedding would be safe and assured, our spirits only slightly dampened by the initial impediments. In fact, all was quite well, during the remaining 4 ½ hour drive through the mountainous terrain of western PA. Conversation was engaging and I knew our marriage would be stronger as a result of the vehicular confinement. And then, within a brief 15 miles of our destination, with an hour to spare before the event, traffic came to an abrupt stop. Unfamiliar with our locale, we felt compelled to stay the course, verbally assuring ourselves, that undoubtedly we would begin to move again. We did not. And when the traffic did deign to oblige those with other plans than stationery construction site-seeing, we were already ten minutes late for the ceremony. As one might imagine, my distress was palpable and Jason’s conciliatory attempts were abjectly dismissed (poor guy).

Confident that all was not lost, Jason’s buoyant optimism propelled us toward our destination, whereupon we discovered that the directions we clung to with pious fervency were in fact- quite inaccurate. Naturally, we were “on fumes” as our car sailed into a gas station and we frenetically hailed a snacking police officer to inquire about the intended locale. I was sobbing- so Jason did the talking. He asked me to fill up the car with gas, but the pump would not work. After the police officer apologetically explained for a superfluous fifteen minutes that he was not familiar with that particular area, he offered Jason a look of sympathy-presumably because I was his overwrought pregnant passenger. Suffice to say, when we did finally happen upon the church, the wedding had just ended. I had failed my dear friend.

Climbing dejectedly back into our car, we determined that the day might still be salvaged at the reception. Hobbling into the hall, on legs that had been car-cramped for 7 hours, we witnessed a hit and run, though general ambivalence for civic duty had won over at this juncture, I am (somewhat) embarrassed to confess. The reception was relatively without consequence in that general catastrophe was avoided and around 9pm we adjourned for our lengthy drive back home. However, just as we descended upon the mountainous turnpike terrain, the weather gods unleashed their vengeance, compelling us to crawl at a mind-numbing speed of 25mph for two hours. Blinding and relentless rains accompanied our silent ride until at last, at one in the morning, we reached the Carlisle exit, approaching the home stretch of this interminable journey. I volunteered to drive and the rain mercifully ceased. This was not a divine sign for within seconds of our exit from the turnpike, those infamous lights and siren greeted me from behind. This is what I said to the officer as he approached my car and I handed him my license, “Good evening sir, I have no idea why I have been stopped. However, I have been driving in blinding rain for 3 hours and I am seven months pregnant and have to use the restroom desperately. Please write the ticket quickly so that I can find a bathroom that is open at this hour.” Amazingly, he handed me back my license and directed me to the nearest diner. No warning. No ticket. No rebuke. Nothing. Though, I did detect a southern drawl, which would explain the antebellum quality of his chivalry. He was probably a Republican as well.

Relieved on many fronts, we contrived to buoy our spirits for the final leg of this marathon excursion by engaging in several “car games.” However, such revelry soon withered under the merciless omnipresence of our own monsoon. What should have only been a brief hour drive to my parent’s home thus resulted in a two and a half hour crawl along a dismal stretch of highway, often mistaken by impetuous truckers as their personal NASCAR extension. Blessedly, we arrived in bodily-if not mental- health, despite appearing like jittery ex-heroine junkies from our caffeine substance abuse en route. Consolation was proffered by the comforts of a breezy bedroom with our (deceptively) angelic looking toddler curled in a slumberous Rockwellian posture within the antique crib. Sleep was not elusive…until the violent shriek of my car alarm awoke us at 4:30 am. Fumbling incoherently for keys to silence the blare, we were met with initial success, until a mere thirty minutes later the alarm sounded once more. Admittedly, our concern for potential car thievery was far surpassed by my concern for my parent’s peaceful slumber, knowing that their morning complaint would be the “poor Christian testimony” of a wailing car alarm to their susceptible neighbors. Thus, with the salvation of a street clearly hinging upon our action or lack thereof, Jason was propelled from the bed, stumbling to the front door in a stupor befitting a fraternity hazer. Within moments, however, Jason returned to my side, demanding my immediate attention with these simple words: “Your mom left the sun roof open all night in this monsoon. The car is flooded and your laptop and iPod were in there.” Of course she did. This disastrous day would not have been complete had this final travesty been somehow avoided. Indeed, the car was flooded with several fuses shorted and the lovely fragrance of mold now greets my pregnancy-sensitive nostrils as an aromatic reminder of my promise to celebrate Loren’s climatic nuptials- “come (literally) hell, or high water.”