Journeying along Palouse roads fosters mutual understanding between a scribe and her mother
Rebelled Hearts## Essay
Under the cold, white skies of Eastern Washington in autumn 2023, a bicycle tour led me over a succession of hills in the Palouse - a sea of undulating swells stretching in all directions as far as the eye could see. In these landscapes that took my breath away, I always thought of my mother, the quiet strength and resilience reflected in the endless waves around me.
Four years earlier, my mother and I embarked on a road trip along these same isolated roads to discover the Palouse. I didn’t know then that it would be our last journey together, our final chance to piece together the stories of our past - to deepen our understanding of it - and each other.
Death, even when inevitable, snatched me off guard - I always believed I’d have more time.
We hit the road in June 2019, eastward on U.S. Highway 12 in early summer, when the fields vibrated like a patchwork quilt of fluorescent yellows, greens, golds, and browns. Driven by the wind, bloated clouds marched across the sky - their shadows in formation racing towards open land.
Our car ride elicited laughter and recognition - reminiscing about life, love, and dreams long ago. The past was no longer threatening; we were no longer adversaries. Instead, we found common ground, a shared history framing an unbreakable bond.
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One of my earliest memories involves scampering after my mother’s dark, zigzagging shadows at my feet on the pavement, under a blinding sun. She moved with an elegance and elusiveness that bewildered me as a child.
For most of my life, I chased her while she tantalized me with tricks and secrets, never quite within my grasp.
When we were little, her love and concern felt like a fleeting breeze - here one moment, gone the next. Her love was not extravagant or vocal, but it shook the foundations of my heart when it shone upon me.
Trapped in a black hole of abuse and neglect, my mother found solace in escaping the grasps of a controlling husband and an erratic past.
Drawn by the salve of a distant future, she fought relentlessly for her children and her sanity. Through the fog of unbearable truths, she carved a life of strength and fortitude that would inspire those closest to her.
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As my mother and I navigated deeper into the Palouse on smaller roads cutting through the fields, our Honda Odyssey felt like a dinghy heaving in waves of dark-green wheat. Erratic breezes riffled the surface of the grain stalks, their bristly glume clusters clicking like secrets being exchanged.
Our exchanges deepened my understanding of my mother - a woman haunted by her past, determined to destroy its hold upon her.
Her childhood, a tale of hardship and heartbreak, haunted her every step. A surprise late-in-life child of a couple already entangled in bitter bitterness, she grappled with the dark secrets that would plague her for years to come.
Abandoned by her father and tortured by her mother, she couldn’t escape the anger and shame of her past - even within the embrace of her children. With stinging silence, she bore the weight of their incomprehension.
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Behind the wheel, I shared my mother’s awe of the landscape and puffed up as if I had made it myself. Maybe in that setting, being able to look straight ahead, or away, allowed us to feel free to parse painful memories.
Our stories, like seams between fields, went up, over, down, and around. Each retelling yielding nuance - each version an agent for change.
Our conversations allowed us to look backward while moving forward - like informative but rapid glances in the rearview mirror. The landscape, like the past behind us, diminishing in size and proportion.
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My sister and I had families of our own in the Seattle area when my mother left Vermont and settled nearby long after our childhoods had ended. She faced us bravely, withstanding pent-up gales of grief and resentment.
She became the rock we needed when crises unfolded in our own lives. A generous listener, she propped me up when my marriage wobbled and then when the wheels came off.
It seems it took a lifetime to learn you deserve more than pain - but we wrested back almost two decades and shared our lives as a supportive family.
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I have some of the same habits as my mother - loud, dramatic sighs of exasperation, for example, when rummaging unsuccessfully for car keys.
When moved by something beautiful, my mother would tsk and then release a soft, rapid exhalation peppered with ‘ahh.’
Tsk and ahh, we chorused as each rise or turn in the road stunned us into renewed appreciation.
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My mother’s illness undid the plans we had for future road trips. Diagnosed with cancer in February 2020, the year following our Palouse drive, by May 2020, I blinked - and she was gone.
In the landscape of life, my mother now lingers, a haunting specter of love and strength. I continue to seek her in the allures and wonders of scenic vistas, where I hope she, too, continues to wander - free and eternally beautiful.
- Amid the breathtaking landscapes of the Palouse, a reminiscence of the road trip I took with my mother four years ago resurfaced, marking the final journey we shared together in Seattle, discussing life, love, family-dynamics, and relationships, as we traveled towards understanding each other better.
- As I embark on future travels, seeking the beauty of various destinations, I find comfort in the memories of my mother's presence and Souse the loss by envisioning her spirit alongside me, appreciating the sights and sounds, much like how she would tsk and ahh, reflecting our shared lifestyle and affection for one another.
