Thursday, April 2, 2015
The True Meaning of Station Wagons
Being around someone who is terminal can be awkward, and I'm the Queen of Awkward sometimes. Case in point: out of pure habit, I walked into her home for the first time, and greeting Susan with the words, "Hi, how are you?"
She was sitting weakly in a recliner, hairless and pale. She pointed to her head and said, "Well...there's this."
We talked about all kinds of things. When I told her about the station wagon I'd been hauled to Idaho against my will in, an auto with lovely faux wooden panels, she laughed and said she'd had to endure riding in one of those, too.
"Who are we kidding," I told Susan, "a lot of the SUVs these days are nothing more than glorified station wagons."
To prove my point, I started taking photos of current SUVs and texted them over to her. She got a kick out of that, and I got a kick out of being right. One blissful day, I found the piece de resistance out in the grocery store parking lot: A 1970s, faded brown number with faux wooden panels. I quickly took a photo and sent it to Susan.
We were both familiar with the classic olive green wreck that sat along Highway 55 in Cascade, and talked about it often. I almost took a photo of it many times, but for some reason never did.
I went to see Susan one last time. She was exhausted, and hadn't talked much, but managed to tell the woman caring for her, "This is the station wagon friend I told you about."
I was okay with that title.
The day Susan passed to the other side, I saw station wagons everywhere I looked. I'd wanted to ask her for some sort of sign when she got to heaven that it was all real, that she was okay, that there was a God that loved me more than I could imagine. Since she was a dancer, I thought maybe I'd ask her to put some dancing in my life...then I'd know. I never gathered the nerve to ask anything like that of her, though.
But I think the station wagons are my signs.
I keep seeing them.
Walking out of Susan's celebration of life into the sunlit parking lot, I stopped short when seeing the shiny hearse that would take her body to its resting place. I shook my head. No wonder neither of us liked station wagons. Deep inside we must've known what they really looked like...one of those babies. And...(crap!)...no matter how hard we might try to avoid it, we're going to end up in one of those, anyway. She was getting ready to ride in one, and so was I, someday. The irony.
I can't get the station wagons out of my head lately. In honor of Susan, and to purge some of the emotions wrapped up in all of that, I began to paint myself a station wagon. Its odd salmon color unexpected, the poignant sunset sky in the background and even the trees were a surprise. The setting looked like somewhere I might want to be.
It occurred to me that although station wagons were ugly, not sleek, just functional, really...that they usually took me to places that wound up being good for me. As a child, I had no control over where the driver decided my destination was, and I'd resented that, not having a say. But an ugly old red 1970s station wagon with faux wooden panels took me to Idaho, where I grew, became a mother, and met people like my friend Susan. It was all for the good.
I'm looking at getting another SUV, and darned if the ones that are growing on me don't look just like another "guess what". If I do get something like that, I'm sure Susan will get a laugh out of it.
I'm going to welcome the station wagons of life, and of the next life. And I'm going to trust the driver.
And every time I see a station wagon, or even an SUV that looks like one, I'll think of what I've been taught about trust, about the adventure of the unknown, and I'll be okay with it all.
I hope I see one today.
*Prints of this painting, done in memory of Susan (Lee) Ellis, are available. Message me here.
Posted by Amy Larson at 9:05 AM