I do want to share a whisper my oldest daughter had, years ago. It just happened one winter, once we were moving from Indiana to your new home on the east coast. My husband, during the time, had accepted a new job in New Hampshire, and my three daughters and I stayed behind to market the house. We lived in a country club development with new homes being built daily, so it was a long eight months later when our five-year-old house finally sold. My girls were in the 4th, 6th and 8th grade and, as with most children facing a long-distance move, they were sad to leave their house and friends behind.
Mother had originate from Ohio to help us with the move, along with the long drive to New Hampshire. On moving day, we watched solemnly while the moving van finally pulled from the curb. Armed with cleaning supplies and the vacuum, we then began the job of thoroughly cleaning the house. By the time we finally packed up the car, it was late in the evening and it had begun to snow quite heavily.
Mama had suffered cluster migraines for years. She’d finally found some relief by breathing oxygen from a tiny portable oxygen mask at the onset of a migraine. This is something she always carried with her. This said, we had to find room in the car for the five foot long green oxygen tank that individuals refilled her small portable one with. Add to that, three children, mama, me, suitcases, a cairn terrior, a howling cat, cleaning supplies and the vacuum, and several fragile items which I didn’t trust the moving van with. Thank God for station wagons. Even so, we were still crammed in pretty tight — and did I mention it was winter and snowing like gangbusters once we finally left Indiana and headed east?
Two hours later on, it was snowing so very hard that I couldn’t start to see the lines on the highway, or the road either, on some stretches. Driving slowly, I got behind a partial for awhile, and I kept my eyes on his tail lights as a beacon. It had been almost midnight when he turned off at among the exits. At the same time, it was snowing so very hard that the wipers couldn’t keep up and snow was caking on the windshield. Without the semi’s tail lights to follow along with, I couldn’t even see where I was going anymore. Mama and I decided we had no business being on the highway and we began to review the exits for a motel.
Several miles further down, I took an exit that the sign promised might have several motels to choose from. Relieved, I pulled up by the door of the very first one I came to and took a strong cleansing breath. I was going to turn off the car and go inside to obtain a room, when my daughter said from the trunk seat, “Mom, we can’t stay here. I smell fire. This motel is going to burn and we’ll die.”
Mama and I looked over each other in disbelief, and then at the pristine, well-lighted (and snow-covered) building. It had been one of the very most well-known and respected motel chains anywhere, and it looked fine. We reassured her that there is no fire, but she stood her ground, insisting so it was going to burn. Mother and I were quite acquainted with such premonitions ourselves, but this is the very first time any of my children ever endured one. We chose to operate a vehicle on down the street a few hundred yards to another motel and we got a space there for what was left of the night.
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