Varoom!

I love to drive.

Subaru as seen in the wild, resting...

And my little red Subaru Forester who answers to the name of Bullet loves to be driven.

She is a mightily coordinated youngster who clings to twisting wet roads like a cougar, so she and I enjoy going places together, like on mountain roads in the rain and snow. (Yes, I did steal (belted radial) that image from the old GoodYear Tire commercial; your remembrance of that gives away your old age, so don't tell anyone...)

Anyway, I steer and Bullet boogies.

Snowy country road with Blue Ridge in the distance

This week we've been up and down 321 to Boone a half a dozen times. That's up and down, counted as one time. Bullet and I have actually traversed Highway 321 a total of twelve times since last Monday.

You see, my daughter broke her ankle two weeks ago, sledding in the perpetual snow storm that has blessed, plagued, and annoyed the Blue Ridge for nigh on ever since the Autumn leaves fell.

Well, after sitting in her dismal, cramped apartment caring for herself for five days, my youngest called for the best and most lovable rescue/care taker she knows. Dearest Mama.

"Can you please come get me?" she asked. My ears perked up like a happy Rat Terrier's. "But of course," I said.

Tugging on my comfy brown knitted boots, I hopped in Bullet and varoomed right up the mountain.

Now if you know me at all, you're aware that I suffer from the malady known to middle agers as the Empty Nest Syndrome. It goes through several stages. I am in Stage Four, the "Wondering Who the Heck I Am Now That There's No One Home to Nurture" stage. So if any of my kids or grandkids needs a little love, I'm there for them like lightening on a telephone pole in the middle of a lake in a thunderstorm on an August afternoon in Central Florida. That's fast, my friend.

Back to my kid. She has been my prisoner/victim until this last Monday when at last she was able to get a cast on her ankle.
The appointment was at 3:30; all went well. I got her home and snuggled into her apartment, her clothes in the wash, bed made and everything unpacked. Bullet and I at last arrived back to our home by 7:15 pm. I felt like Supermama, and Supermama was pooped! Bill cooked. I slept like a log. 

(Picture of adorable daughter in bright green cast should have gone here, but alas, we didn't get one!)

Then yesterday morning I got a phone call before I was out of bed. It was my daughter. In pain. The cast was pressing against the outside of her poor widdle foot.

Zoom zoom! Up 321, back down to Taylorsville, where the good doctor cut the cast away from her tortured toes, back up to Boone and down 321 to home. Whew!

(Don't worry. I'm mercifully sparing you the details; you don't want to know "why Taylorsville?".)

I think I've had enough of the mountain drive for one week.

I have other things to do today, like writing and drawing. I don't want to go back up the mountain tomorrow, either; or the rest of the week.

But I do love the mountain drive. Listening to Bach, with the bass turned up so that it vibrates the steering wheel beneath my fingertips.

I look out upon those deep blue mountains and can see so far around the earth that I almost sneak up on myself from the back!

I can tell where it's foggy and where it's raining and where the sun shines bright. I see Grandfather Mountain and Hawksbill and Table Rock. I see the storm front that is headed this way, floating just above the soft yellow sunset, tinged in greens and blues and pinks.

As for Bullet, she just hums along with me. She loves the setting sun, too. The cold crisp air, the scent of the pavement.

And of course our dear friend, Johann. (You know. Bach.)