I was a resident of New Jersey from 1995 until 2005, and for the last two years I’ve been living in the DC metro area. I have vague memories of being 18 years old and finding myself on the New Jersey Turnpike in morning rush hour traffic heading toward the Big Apple. I’m pretty sure “terrified” is the best description of how I felt at the time. But my time served in the Garden State turned me into a pretty confident driver, and heavy traffic on city streets or “under-construction” highways just doesn’t phase me any more.

Catholic Mom and SFO Mom have each written posts about driving, road rage, and surviving the highways. My approach to driving is fairly similar to Barb’s:

I don’t carry a gun in my car and chase down some other driver who cut me off. I don’t change my destination so I can tailgate them for miles, and I absolutely don’t roll down my window at the next traffic light so I can give them the “one-finger salute.” But I do yell at other drivers from the privacy of my own driver’s seat. And I do that often.

Yeah, me too. Yesterday, I was in Arlington, and the road I needed to follow was being re-paved – one lane was closed. I dutifully moved into the open lane in a safe and early fashion. Dozens and dozens of cars flew past me in the fifteen or twenty minutes that it took for my lane to travel the half mile or so and get through the traffic light at the end of the construction zone. I really wasn’t bothered by these obnoxious people because I knew that the half-mile backup would have stretched out to two miles on city streets if everyone moved over right away. But as we got closer to the merge zone, my irritation grew at the sluggishness of the truck and passenger car right in front of me who seemed to be letting everyone else go first. Polite merging requires that each lane take turns – one car at a time. My NJ driving instincts came out in force, and I sat on the bumper of the car in front of me refusing to allow any additional cars to move over. But I did break a cardinal rule in NJ – if you look, you yield (remember that, Denise, the next time you head on up north! The merest glance at another car indicates that you will allow them the right of way, and this applies to passengers in your car, too!). The woman who was trying to cut in was gesturing madly at me and clearly yelling that she felt she ought to be permitted to merge. Since she hadn’t been sitting in line for as long as I had, I thought her anger at me was completely unjustified, and I let her know it – of course, the only people who heard me were my kids.

The Vatican is getting a lot of ribbing for its recent Ten Commandments for drivers. They are a bit…ethereal (Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness??) I’ve come up with my own list of practical rules:

I. Do not attempt to drive if you are not physically, mentally, or intellectual up to the task. This covers everything from being too drunk or too sleepy to drive to being ignorant of the state or local statutes governing driving.

II. When traveling in moderate to heavy traffic, the posted speed limit is not to be observed. Maintain the speed set by the majority of cars in your lane. Traveling faster or slower than the cars around you creates an unsafe situation. If driving 20 mph over the speed limit in heavy traffic on metropolitan highways frightens you, use a different roadway.

III. Keep to the right as much as possible and allow others to pass. If you decide you want to pass the car in front of you, be sure you can do so quickly and without disrupting the traffic in the other lane.

IV. Know where you are going. If you are lost or confused, safely pull over and figure out what you want to do. Carry a map or have the phone number of your destination handy so you can get directions.

V. Follow the traffic pattern. If you are in a right turn lane, turn right. If you are in a straight lane, go straight. If you do not want to turn, but you are in a turn lane, too bad. Safely figure out a way to turn around after you turn and without creating chaos.

VI. Be considerate of other drivers. Do not make u-turns when other cars are present. Do not attempt to make a left turn out of a gas station onto a busy road. Do not block the progress of traffic in your lane in heavy traffic by waiting for a break to make an illegal left turn. Do not allow private conversations or distractions from the cell phone, other passengers or the radio to affect your driving. Do not block other cars so you can have a conversation with your best friend who just happened to pull up at the light in the lane next to you.

VII. Be aware of the current traffic situation. Look farther up the road. Perhaps the lane is stopped because a tractor-trailer is making a turn up ahead. Don’t block an intersection and prevent left-turners from getting through. If the highway sign says your lane ends in a half-mile and you are driving 60 mph, realize that you will hit the merge point in about 30 seconds and begin looking now for a spot to move over.

VIII. Do not pull into traffic without sufficient room. The smaller the gap, the bigger your engine and the faster your reflexes ought to be. Making other cars slow down to give you time to get up to speed is rude, and often dangerous. Do not pull out in front of a car with no cars behind it.

IX. Do not be Santa Claus in July. Stopping briefly to allow a car to make a left hand turn is nice. Stopping for a minute or two to allow a half dozen cars to make a left hand turn is rude to those behind you who would like to get to their destination sometime today. Stopping traffic to allow someone to make an illegal or extremely inconvenient turn only encourages them to do it again.

X. Do not assume that the big, white 12 passenger van filled with kids is the reason your lane is moving slowly. You can tailgate, flash your lights, and yell obscenities, but I can’t make the little, rusting Dodge Neon in front of me go any faster. And if you find a break in the right lane and try to dart ahead, don’t think I’ll have forgotten your rudeness and will feel disposed to let you get in front of me, even if I do think perhaps that the little, rusting Dodge Neon needs to be run off the road.

I hope everyone has safe travels this summer. I, myself, am heading up to PA and NJ tomorrow for the weekend, and will be traveling half-way across the country a week after that. A girlfriend of mine has a little motto that she (and her kids) say when traveling by car: “Three Hail Marys for a safe and happy trip.” We’ll be praying!

On one of the rural highways of Northern Alabama, I saw a dead animal on the side of the road. I didn’t get a good look and wasn’t sure that what I thought I saw was really what it was. But within the hour, I saw another one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a live armadillo, so it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that I wouldn’t readily identify a dead one, but that’s definitely what it was. Armadillo road kill.

And I started laughing. Poor thing, really, I don’t normally find dead animals funny. But this dead animal brought back a fourteen year old memory, and I had to resist the urge to call my husband at work and tell him, “I didn’t do it!”

In January of 1993, the end of my winter break during my senior year of college coincided with Bill’s graduation from the Armor Officer Basic Course at Fort Knox, Kentucky. I wanted to go, and since Fort Knox was an hour or so closer to my home in Ohio than my college on the eastern border of Pennsylvania was, my mom drove me and all my luggage down there the day before the ceremony. We would drive to his parents’ house in Pennsylvania afterward, and he would take me back to school in time for the spring session.

Bill had not packed a thing. And he had four or five months worth of stuff in his little Bachelor Officer’s Quarters. And he’s not one noted for his ability to throw things away: junk mail can sit for a year on his desk if he’s left to his own devices. In all fairness, he is much improved over the last decade, and there was very little junk mail here by the time I got home on Tuesday, but at the time, he was awful.

And I wasn’t much better. I had packed “lightly” for my 5 weeks or so at home from college and probably only had 3 or 4 hundred pounds of junk to haul back. It was really only those necessary items a girl can’t be without for a month. I left the other semi-load of stuff in my dorm room.

Oh, Bill drove a 1979 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. In dark gray. And the taillights weren’t working. This photo is not Bill’s car. This car is in nice condition, and the owner is asking nearly $20k for it. Six years ago, we sold Bill’s Trans Am for about a tenth of that (maybe).

After his graduation ceremony at something like 6 am, I set to work packing his stuff while he headed to the U-Haul dealer to see about a roof carrier for our luggage. That was our plan, and it would have worked nicely. Except that Trans Ams have a sloping roof and won’t hold a roof luggage carrier. And the frame on a Trans Am is not strong enough to pull even a small trailer. So everything would have to go inside the car.

On his way back to tell me this, some part of the engine cooling system went kablooey. And so I spent the day packing his stuff, while he spent the day fixing the car.

And we had it in our head that he had to clear his quarters by the end of the day. I don’t know if this was true or not. Looking back, it probably wasn’t. But at the time, we really thought that we had to leave.

When Bill finally got back with the repaired car, it was afternoon. We started cramming stuff in the trunk, in the back seat, in the back window. Every nook and cranny was filled. There was no airspace in the car. It was so full, in fact, that the driver could not get out without first handing stuff between the seat and the door over to the passenger. And then the passenger had to wait for the driver to get out in order to dump all of that stuff plus the stuff that rested on top of and around him/her onto the driver’s seat.

And did I mention that the taillights didn’t work?

It was late by the time we left on our 12 hour journey. We ate dinner on post and headed out. We were tired, having been up since the early morning. We drove for many hours, but then exhaustion took over. We began swapping drivers every hour, sometimes every half hour. It was awful.

Why didn’t we stop? We should have pulled into a rest stop for an hour or more, I guess, but we didn’t think it was safe (as if driving while exhausted was!). We should have gone to a Motel 6, but there were two reasons we didn’t. First of all, we were too poor. Secondly, as laughable as it seems now, I would have been mortified to check into a motel with him. We had been dating for three years, but we weren’t married. It was one thing to “crash at his place” for the night before his graduation – a typical college mentality. But to get a room at a motel with him? I naively thought that a motel clerk would be scandalized and might think me a harlot. The shame! The horror!

So, on we drove in the dark with no taillights and little traffic to keep us company in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. Ah, those crazy days of our youth! I honestly don’t know how I survived past my 25th birthday.

It was my turn to drive, and Bill was passed out under a pile of stuff next to me when some thing suddenly appeared on the road. I had never in my life hit an animal with a car, but there was no time to react, and I nailed the poor thing. Bill claims it was the animal’s death shriek that awoke him; I don’t know how he could differentiate between its cry and mine. He asked me what happened.

“I hit an armadillo!” I sobbed. His response:

“How long have I been asleep and what direction are you driving?!?!?”

I had never seen an armadillo, but I had also never seen a possum either. I didn’t know that both these rodents seem to like crossing roads at the same time that cars drive on them. I also didn’t know that possums are rather ubiquitous throughout the U.S., but armadillos are generally only found in the Southeast. Since then, I have seen plenty of dead possums on the roadways and narrowly avoided hitting plenty more. But not until this week had I ever seen an armadillo, dead or alive.

And so, as my kids were asking me why I thought a dead armadillo was so funny, all I could choke out was that it looked an awful lot like a possum.

I knew that it would be tough for me to go 15 hours or so in the car without another driver, so I scheduled a night in Hanceville, Alabama. It was only 3 1/2 hours from my sister’s home, and perhaps it may have been wiser to travel another few hours before stopping, but Hanceville is the home of the Shrine of the Blessed Sacrament built by Mother Angelica, and I wanted to see it.

The EWTN website has limited information and only a few small pictures, so I was unprepared for the glorious beauty that awaited me. This photo is from their website and photography is not permitted inside for the average visitor. This morning I found this site with an online tour and great information about the architecture and building of the shrine.

Fortunately for me, The Kitchen Madonna graciously kept an eye on my children as they played in the piazza so that I could have ten minutes of quiet prayer. I glanced at my watch and realized it was just turning 3 pm, so I did the Divine Mercy Chaplet. It was so very peaceful and such a pleasant pause in my wonderful, family-packed vacation. I was completely unaware of the tragedy that had occurred earlier in the day in Blacksburg, Virginia and offer that time of prayer to the victims and their families.

Here, Jenny is walking toward the Castle San Miguel which houses the gift shop.

My time at the shrine was brief due to the age of my travel partners, but I’ve learned over the years not to put my life on hold while I wait for them to grow up. All told, I probably only spent an hour on the shrine’s property, but like a nibble of some delicious new food, I am not left with disappointment but rather with anticipation for some future journey with more time and older people. I recommend a trip to the shrine or at least a detour in your other plans to spend some soul-refreshing moments here.

And when you get here, you will need a place to sleep. I stayed at one of the guest houses recommended by EWTN’s website: the Saint Michael Guesthouse. It would be impossible for me to say enough nice things about this place. I called Jeanette, the manager, to alert her to my imminent arrival (having dropped the dog off at a local vet who boarded her for the night) and to get specific directions, and she informed me the door was open and the key was on the table. Indeed it was, and had she not been getting trash ready for the local pickup the next morning, I would not have met this lovely lady. The invoice on the table instructed me to leave the payment and the key there before checking out.

I have stayed at a wide range of motels, hotels, rented cabins, time share condos, American B&Bs and European pensions in my life, and this house was the most comfortable and pleasant place in which I have spent the night. The generous front porch had two rockers from which you could enjoy the country breezes. In the rear was a deck shaded by trees and glimpses of the shrine farm just beyond. The house is modern with all new appliances and fixtures and is filled with new, comfortable and nice furniture – not bargain basement leftovers or roadside rescues as many rental homes seem to have – and is decorated with plenty of religious art.

The generous, country, eat-in kitchen was fully stocked with utensils for the grill on the back deck, pots, pans, bowls, a full-sized coffee maker (Krups) and more than enough plates, glasses, coffee mugs, and flatware to service a large family. There were even salad dressing and other condiments in refrigerator, coffee, sugar and creamer in the cupboard and a huge, chocolate bar for us to share as our dessert. The bathrooms had shampoo, conditioner and body wash – not trial sizes, but regular sizes left for anyone to use.

They may call themselves a guest “house,” but really this place is a guest “home.” I felt as if someone had said, “Here, stay at my place for the night,” and cleared out their most personal possessions only. It was not impersonal or generic in any way but in all ways was warm, inviting and friendly. Without a doubt, if I ever have an excuse to travel through northern Alabama, I will stay here again.

Safe. Sound.

Buried by laundry, email and voice mail. Must hit the grocery store, unpack the car, and wash the 1.4 million dead bug guts off the windshield and hood.

Had a great trip. Very happy to be home.

Alas, the cabin in the woods does not have a wireless connection as I had thought. And my cell phone coverage is spotty outside and non-existent inside. I guess they think people want to “get away from it all” or something.

{sigh}

But the cabin is a generous size for the 6 of us (7 if you include the dog). There are two full bathrooms and four bedrooms, each with a double bed. Two bedrooms are on one side of the house, and the other two are separated from them by the living room, dining room and kitchen. I put the older boys in one room and the girls in the room next door. Pete had a double bed to himself, and I took the master bedroom near him. The dog crate was in the living room, and Greta seemed perfectly fine there.

Just in case a double bed was cramped for two squirmy kids, I had put a sleeping bag in each room as an alternative. Sure enough, about ten minutes after saying goodnight to everyone, Billy relocated to the floor.

Later that evening, I did some reading in bed before turning off the light. Two minutes after that, the dog came in from the living room to take her usual spot on the floor next to Bill’s side of the bed (even though Bill wasn’t there).

An hour later, Katie came in suffering with a hurt leg – cramps, maybe? She decided it was best to sleep on my floor and retrieved her pillow.

Another hour or so later, and Petey fell out of the bed. I brought him in to mine. I guess I slept restlessly with him for about another hour before I decided that his empty bed would be more comfortable and went there instead.

At this point, I lost track of time since the only clock in the place was in the master bedroom.

Jenny woke up, crying. I lay down with her for a bit. I couldn’t relax, mainly because I was afraid I wouldn’t hear Pete if he woke up. Jenny seemed asleep, so I went back to Pete’s room (my new room?). Nope, she wasn’t asleep. And she wasn’t interested in being alone in a strange bedroom either. Where’s Katie? she kept asking. I led her across the cabin and showed her Katie’s comatose body on the floor of my bedroom (Pete’s bedroom?). I took her into the other bedroom and had her sleep with me there. Every so often she would roll over and thump me on the back – I think she was checking to make sure I hadn’t gone anywhere.

And the final step in this crazy dance was when the dog left the master bedroom and came and lay down in her usual spot on the floor on Bill’s side of the bed (even though Bill wasn’t there).

I trust that tonight will be a bit better as it will be a slightly less strange place.

I’m in the Sunshine State, but it’s not sunny. At least it’s not snowing, although there was sleet locally on Easter Sunday morn.

I’m still recovering from the 16 hour road trip on Thursday with 5 kids and a dog, three of whom vomited at some point (or more than one point) in the trip. We survived.

But I have no complaints. I’m here with the people I love the best. I was able to attend Good Friday services for the first time in years. I saw my Dad join the Church at the Easter Vigil. I was able to hug my sister hours after she was confirmed. The dog hasn’t managed to catch the cat, and one of my parent’s neighbors has an unlocked wireless router.

Life is good.

Melissa Wiley has had some readers commenting on stupid kid arguments. Her kids had been fighting over the dryer lint! But other people’s kids have fought over things even more inane than that…like the two kids fighting over imaginary goggles. I can’t possibly top that.

But the thread did recall a most amusing argument that occurred over two years ago between Billy (then age 4) and Katie (then age 3). We were on a road trip which meant that my tolerance for such bickering would normally be very low. We had stopped at a gas station so Fritz could use the toilet. Katie started talking about one of the buildings nearby and referred to it, incorrectly, as a “house.” Billy told her it was a “store.” Back and forth they went: “HOUSE!” “STORE!” “HOUSE!” “STORE!” When Bill and Fritz returned to the car, he opened his mouth to silence it, but I stopped him – motioning that he should just listen.

Billy brought Fritz up to speed on the “discussion,” and so he began to assist Billy with convincing Katie it was really a store and not a house. They used logic, pointing out that people didn’t live there, it was a building wherein things were sold. They tried a forceful argument – shouting as loudly as they could. Thank goodness they were little and tightly buckled in or things might have come to blows.

Katie, even though she was only three, was not ignorant. She had realized early on that it really was a store. But she was apparently too proud to admit her mistake to her older brothers. She stuck with “house”. After a bit more, she realized she had both brothers in quite a snit, and kept arguing just for the fun of it. I know this to be true, because eventually the discussion went something like this:

“Katie, it’s a STORE…say, STORE.”

“I caaaan’t!”

“Come on, Katie, say ST-OOORRRRE.”

“ST-house.”

“No, Katie, STORE.”

“St-St-St-HOUSE.”

“Try harder, Katie, STORE.”

“I caaaan’t.”

My husband spoke up from the driver’s seat. “What can’t you say, Katie?”

“Store.”

I don’t know who laughed louder: Bill and I or the boys who couldn’t believe that Dad could trick her so easily. They tried to do the same thing, but she went back to her “st-house” routine. “Do it again, Dad,” they cried, and he might have done it. But since they now realized it was not an educational oversight that had her convinced a store was a house but rather that their little sister had managed to get them all worked up for her own amusement, the talk in the car quickly turned to other things like how much farther, what time is it, and what snacks do we have.

My initial instincts had been to squelch the debate from the beginning. After two or three rounds of “HOUSE!-STORE!” I was preparing my lungs for a loud, “CUT IT OUT!” I’m glad I was able to restrain myself (and Bill), because two years later the scene remains at the top of our funny road trip conversations.

I also understand now how my mom seemed to be “car-deaf” when we were kids. Smart moms go out and get one of those magic, invisible, sound-wave repulsers and install it between the front seats and the rear of the vehicle!