Anne Lamott and the Road to Paradise--or Not

.

Anne Lamott and the Road to Paradise—or Not

Dear Virginia,

I said I would tell you the story of my tribulation, trying to get to Tuscarora at the same time I was listening to Anne Lamott reading Plan B—Further Thoughts on Faith. Because we both love Anne Lamott and are curious about her wonderful combination of craziness and faith, I took the time to record my misadventure.

Lamott herself was the reader, so it was like taking a road trip with a non-stop talker, someone so needy and neurotic and funny that I could not bring myself to eject her from the cd player. The consequence was that I made some stupid, unthinking decisions, practically ruined my new Suburu, and caused my husband go a little berserk.

Here’s what happened.

This was last Memorial Day weekend. The Tuscarora Artists were holding an Open Studio. It was a big deal, lots of advertising, even a Nevada Arts Council promotional grant. Joan and I had worked on a second series of the poetry cards, “Six Poems from Tuscarora.” She and Stan were already there, staying at the little summer place we’ve owned for years. I planned to meet them for the open studio and then stay on for a week or so.

I was filled with anticipation and loaded the car accordingly. Aside from clothes, books, writing materials and art supplies, there was a box containing six bottles of Roederer champagne in silver and gold gift wrap, a wedding present to be delivered to a family friend in Elko.

Friday I stayed at my son’s house in Carson City. I got an early start and was positive I would be in Tuscarora by noon. I bought the audio version of Plan B a month before and saved it for my road trip. Once I turned off Highway 395 and on to Interstate 80, I inserted the first disk.

Why are her words so captivating? For women roughly her age, like you and me, it’s because we share many of her issues. Also, we identify with her neediness—her need to think and write about herself, not because she is self-centered in an ordinary sense. It’s her burst of self-consciousness and uncertainty that we find both familiar and endearing. Remember when she isn’t even sure if her stuff is good enough for the dump?

Only when I passed Winnemucca and noticed that Golconda was ten miles away did I realize that I had to think about something besides Anne Lamott, her son, George Bush, and/or Jesus. I had a choice to make: should I turn off at Golconda and take the unimproved Midas road? Should I stay on 80 all the way to Elko, and then drive the fifty-two miles to Tuscarora, paved except the last seven miles of well-maintained county road?

I pulled into a rest stop a few miles before the Golconda exit. The high desert air was invigorating; the blue sky pure; and the mountains seemed familiar in a severe, primordial way. Actually, this particular range has always scared me a little. I didn’t even know its name.

Taking the Midas Road was the more adventurous choice, and I ignored the voice that sounded like a tiny husband sitting on my shoulder saying, “You’ll get a flat tire if you take the Midas road. Don’t do it.”

It’s not that I stood there thinking, “What would Anne Lamott do?” or, for that matter, “What would Jesus do?” although I was becoming a tiny bit peevish that I didn’t have a personal savior to help me through my worrisome days. I inhaled the Nevada air and found my inner ranch woman who said, “What the hell. Take the Midas road.”

I buckled myself back in the driver’s seat, inserted disk three and headed for the hills. You are probably guessing that I took the wrong road. Yep. All the time I thought I was on the Midas road to Tuscarora, I was on the Eden Valley road to Paradise. Here’s how it happened.

I had a cd going. I can’t exactly remember what Anne’s issue was, but I know I felt it would be rude of me not to give her my full attention. Also, I was talking on my cell phone with Joan. She was impatient, waiting for me to get to Tuscarora. There was a bus load of people from Reno who were on a Nevada arts tour. “A bus load” she said. “in Tuscarora!” Tuscarora has a year-round population of thirteen and ordinarily the only things you can buy are stamps at the post office.

“I’m coming,” I said. “I’m taking the Midas road. It’s quicker.” At the very moment I was talking with Joan and listening to Anne Lamott, I was turning onto a gravel road running parallel to the no-name mountains. Straight road, stark mountains. I know where I’ m going and I know who’s going with me, don’t I, Anne?

I must have clipped along for at least thirty miles, glancing at the mountains every now and then because there was something wrong about them, and looking for a sign. Yes, God and Jesus play such a huge part in Anne Lamott’s life that after the second disk, “sign” was starting to have a double meaning for me, too.

I could easily have gone the forty-four miles to Paradise Valley, Nevada without passing a soul on the road. Fortunately, I saw the dusty rooster tail of an oncoming pickup. I stopped, rolled down the window, and waved my arm. “Hi!” I said. “I think I’m on the Midas road. I’m tryin’ to get to Tuscarora. Am I on the right road?”

The driver, a ranch hand or a miner, gave me a kind look. “Nope. This is the road to Paradise. The Midas road is on the other side of the mountain.” His passenger looked straight ahead, probably suppressing a smirk.

The driver told me what I had to do, but I knew anyway. Turn around and eat his dust all the way back to Golconda, which I did. By this time I was well into the third cd. I may have turned her down, but I never turned her off. She needed me. She was on a cruise, obsessing about her body in a bathing suit.

When I got to Golconda, it was Groundhog Day, the movie. I had a choice to make: get back on interstate 80. Two hours to Elko and an hour to Tuscarora. Or take the Midas turnoff. I could clearly see the sign I had missed before: Midas 34 miles. My car was dusty; the windshield bug-specked. Tuscarora seemed closer, now that the mountains were on the appropriate side of my car. Yep. I took the road less traveled and regretted it.

Although I was pretty sure I was on the right road and there were signs pointing the way, my inner ranch woman had developed Lamottian insecurities. The signs became less frequent and weren’t confidence builders—little US Forest Service markers pointing to obscure destinations with stupid names like “Toe Jam Creek.” I was getting tense, but still listening to Anne Lamott.

However, I was getting weary of her fixation on George-the-devil-incarnate- Bush. I started talking back to my cd player. Then the next thing I knew I was laughing out loud as she described shades of feeling, from unconditional love to murderous rage, toward her teenage son. It’s the same honest study of the variety of parental responses that she so brilliantly describes in Operating Instructions, the first book of hers I read years ago. Okay, I tell myself. Stick it out with Anne. Trust you’re on the right road. You’ll get there.

Suddenly I see Willow Creek reservoir. Like an Old Testament wanderer in the desert, I see water. The oasis appears. It’s a miracle! Actually, it’s like that. You drive for about forty miles on a gravel road through a valley that’s not called “Paradise” adjacent to intimidating, no-name mountains, which are now on your left, as they should be, and then you move through an eternity of undulating sage-covered hills. The road becomes narrow, rutted, and curved. You can’t get too distracted because an idiot in a 4x4 truck or a hapless idiot like yourself in a station wagon could be barreling around the next curve and you will die in a head-on crash in the middle of nowhere. In the meantime, Anne Lamott is having a terrible time trying to teach Sunday school.

The end is near. I know where I am. I know where I’m going. I’m glad the road is rutted. It’s always rutted on the other side of the Willow Creek reservoir. Everybody knows that. I’m even excited about the swathes of Mormon crickets that now make the road crawl at various intervals. I imagine myself being able to tell Milt, our neighbor in Tuscarora, “Saw the crickets just the other side of Willow Creek.”

By now, I have had it with Anne Lamott. Had it! Why is she dumping one me? I have cellulite, too, and problems of my own. She has gone from being my best friend to another one of those people in my life who never listens.

Then I hear something—a pop and a hiss. “Fuck!” Anne Lamott also says fuck when she is anxious or frustrated. Jesus doesn’t seem to mind. I stop the car. Fortunately, I am not in a Mormon cricket zone at that moment. My first thought was that the rough road had caused one of the bottles of champagne to explode. I check the box in the back seat. Nope. I get out and walk around the car. I even get on my hands and knees and look under the car. Nothing was hanging loose. No oil pan in the dirt. I want to ask Anne Lamott if 2006 Suburus have oil pans, but, no, the car door is open and she’s still going on about herself.

Then it’s over. The end of the fifth cd. The car is quiet. My steering seems unusually difficult, but the ruts are deep. I see a familiar ranch and it is on the correct side of the road. I know I’m only five miles from Tuscarora, and I’m driving like the hounds of hell are chasing me.

It’s four in the afternoon. The first open studio day is done. The bus has taken the art-loving tourists back to the Red Lion Casino in Elko. As I pull up, I see Joan and Stan sitting on lawn chairs drinking gin and tonics. I can tell they’re glad to see me. They don’t even complain about the wave of dust I create when I pull into the yard. Stan raises his glass, “Ya want one?” and then points with his drink to my left front tire, “Flat tire.”

I realize that I have been riding the rim for the last ten or fifteen miles. Okay. This shouldn’t be a big deal. I got a flat on the Midas road. So, I didn’t listen to the tiny husband on my shoulder who now seems like a not-so-jolly green giant standing with his arms crossed back in California really pissed because everybody knows about these new AWD cars and you don’t get one flat tire you have to replace all four and you never, ever drive on a flat because that throws the finely calibrated steering mechanism out of whack and you might as well drive the son-of-a-bitch into the Willow Creek reservoir and go buy a new car.

Here’s how the story ends. I didn’t ruin the car. I did have to buy a new set of tires. The rest of the weekend was really fun. I did not have the religious conversion I was hoping for, in spite of all the signs. You know, headed for Paradise with Anne Lamott and then finding out you’re on the wrong road.

Love,

Nancy