Journey: Exhaling in Asheville
Sometimes a journey takes you beyond your intended GPS coordinates, to a place you didn’t realize you needed to go. That's my favorite thing about traveling. The mystery. The surprises. The anticipation of creating memories. Recently, our family was transported somewhere we all needed to go – not a place or destination really, but more of a mindset, a small piece of real estate in our heads where surprise and laughter lives and fear is kicked to the curb. We went there the night my mother laughed so hard her wig fell off.
It was fall break. My three daughters and I drove from Rome, Georgia to Asheville, North Carolina to meet my parents for a couple of nights away. Asheville has been on my must-travel list for a long time, and I was eager to tour the Biltmore Estate, feeling confident it would appeal to our whole group, which ranged in age from eight to 74 years old. My basketball-coach-of-a-husband couldn't break away from work, so it was up to the rest of us to make memories to share with him later.
My parents eagerly agreed to travel from their home in Shelbyville, Kentucky to join us there. We met on a Sunday at a trendy breakfast/lunch spot in downtown Asheville called Early Girl Eatery. My well-traveled friend, Jen, recommended it, so I knew it would be good. (She was right.) The Fried Green Tomato Napoleon, a unique combination of fried green tomatoes and grits, was an exceptionally great start to our culinary journey in this foodie town. After exploring the quaint, downtown shopping district, we headed to the rental unit. We had searched online and booked a newly renovated home on VBRO – "Contemporary Jewel" it was labeled. Fortunately, it was as shiny and new in person as the photos indicated, with top-of-the-line everything, from the landscaping and man-made waterfall to the HGTV-style bathrooms. There was even a complimentary bottle of wine left on the massive, granite kitchen island. The owners, Lyn and Alex, offered some suggestions on dining during our stay. Appreciating their exquisite taste in interior design, we took their advice and chose a restaurant for dinner just a couple of miles away called the Copper Crown.
With menus opened and appetites rumbling (again), we placed our orders. My mom, whom my children refer to as "Grammy," had just been introduced to the hilarity of Snapchat filters, and the kids were demonstrating the app's ability to "swap faces." Normally, I'm a stickler for putting away phones at the dinner table, especially in restaurants, but both generations of family members were actively enjoying seeing their faces swapped and contorted, so I didn't want to spoil the fun. As I sat there, eagerly awaiting my gourmet burger and mentally checking off my To Do List for our excursion to Biltmore the next day, the table erupted in laughter. My middle daughter, Aubrey, had just proudly handed Grammy back her iPhone to reveal my mother's face with some type of crazy filter. Mom was clutching the phone to her chest as if it was the Hope diamond. Then she stretched out her arm to get another look through squinted eyes, igniting another round of laughter. She looked up to the heavens and let out the familiar cackle I've consistently heard since my childhood. It was her trademark laugh – the kind that's loud and you feel a need to be embarrassed by it, but you give in to the contagiousness and join her with your own throaty, quieter version.
That's when it happened.
When wig met floor.
And, hands met head.
Wide-eyed, Mom frantically clawed for the hair piece that was missing in action. She turned to me in both horror and exhilarating surprise, fingers spreading across her head to account for the lack of hair. Instinctively, I jumped out of my chair and retrieved the small, animal-like thing that was lying flat and lifeless on the cold restaurant floor. Clumsily, I shook it until it formed a silver bowl and inexpertly attempted to crown her with it. Shaking hands still covered her face. Her shoulders were heaving. I had to lean over her to try to secure it, the upper half of my body cradling her naked head. I was sure she was having a humiliation meltdown. This is the same woman who had shushed me in church for talking above a whisper and instructed me to "sit like a lady," almost a zillion times during my childhood. There was no way she was going to recover from her wig falling off in a public place. No way. I fully expected none of us would be enjoying the burgers, scallops and grilled cheese that we had just ordered. Nope, our night was taking a different turn. I was sure of it.
Feeling brave enough to uncover her face, she looked up at me. It was clear then. I had put the wig on backwards! Her shoulders were still heaving, but, amazingly, the tears welling up in her hazel brown eyes stemmed from uncontrollable laughter, not embarrassment. (Well, maybe a little embarrassment.) The reversed wig sported silky, silver bangs, nearly covering her deer-in-the-headlight pupils. "Is? It? On? Right?," she asked between staggered, whole-body-shaking laughs. I critiqued my failed attempt at restoring order, then exhaled, finally releasing the breath I had been holding since seeing the wig fall. Surrendering to the situation, I joined her in laughing so hard I could barely answer. Tears began streaming down my face. Steadying myself with jello-like arms on the table, I looked her in the eyes and said between breaths, "No, Mom. It's on backwards. But. We'll. Fix it." More confidently, I swiveled the wig back into its normal position, patting it down like an unruly pet that had finally behaved. I glanced at the girls and my father, each of whom had obviously received the same unspoken permission I did to let loose and laugh hysterically. We became the table that everyone stared at inquisitively with amused expressions, some appalled and some wishing they were sitting with us.
Although a little tousled, the wig finally nestled in its home, correctly positioned with both of Mom's hands holding it steady. She hunkered down and put her elbows on the table, silently wishing a bottle of Super Glue would be served with our meal so she could ensure it not falling off again. Catching her breath, she looked at me and said, "It's going to be okay," as her laughing eyes softened.
The weight of her words sunk in, like a football caught in the stomach. She wasn't just talking about the wig. "It's going to be okay," rang in my head. I smiled and nodded. I exhaled again, long and slow.
Take that, Cancer.
Our entire party of six just boldly laughed at you straight in your UGLY face, right there in a public restaurant where fancy food is served and girls are supposed to sit like ladies.
TAKE THAT!
This woman who has been told she is beautiful her entire life and who suddenly loses her hair, her eyelashes, her sense of taste and 12 inches of her colon just bravely laughed you right out of the room.
Take that.
With sides a little sore, we eventually recovered from the wig catastrophe and no one kicked us out of the restaurant. We got to eat our scallops, burgers and grilled cheese. It was going to be okay.
The next day, we enjoyed a wonderful time at the Biltmore and a quiet evening back at our rented home away from home. We opted for take-out pizza. Everyone's hair stayed in place. I found mom the next morning in the garage-turned-game-room all by herself, determined to perfect her pool shark techniques. On a normal day, she wakes up crazy early due to all the medicine she's taking, so who knows how long she had been in there. I don't think I'd ever seen her play pool before this trip. Ever. But, there she was, her eyes on the eight ball as if it were threatening to steal her middle school boyfriend. Eventually, the kids joined her in racking up balls, chalking sticks and shooting with really bad form. Technique didn't matter, however. They all stuck with it, encouraging her and each other, and occasionally something fell in a side pocket. (Never mind if it was the cue ball.)
Our two-day getaway now seemed too short, and Dad suggested we extend our trip. Our unit wasn't available for an extra night, so we packed our bags and found ourselves venturing to Biltmore Village for breakfast at the Corner Kitchen. It's a stone's throw from the entrance to the actual Biltmore Estate and a table upstairs documented the seats where Michelle and Barack Obama had once sat to enjoy their own taste of Asheville. Pretty cool. Around the corner, the Grand Bohemian, an elegant tudor-styled boutique hotel, summoned us to be spontaneous and inquire about spending one more night together. Outfitted with an art gallery and real antique treasures, the lobby featured a center fireplace and a statue of a black bear holding a plate of cookies. Sandwiched between two uniquely beautiful chairs was an antique table that looked exactly like the one my parents inherited from my mom's uncle. That sealed the deal. We were staying.
After a day of touring Asheville by trolley and a stop at the Grove Park Inn, we settled back into the hotel to enjoy feeling pampered. Mom was in need of an early night after two straight days of activity and the girls were happy to don hotel robes and just watch TV. Dad and I opted to head downstairs and splurge on a steak dinner at the Red Stag, the hotel's signature restaurant. Thankful for this opportunity to share a nice meal together, I realized the need for Dad to exhale too. We ordered our steaks medium rare, shared a wedge salad and enjoyed catching up as father and daughter.
Reluctantly, I drove away from the Blue Ridge Mountains as the fog lifted the next morning. I was thankful for the rising sun and the rose gold light shining on the trees, but even more illuminating was the souvenir I was bringing home. As I watched someone I love travel a journey she never planned and certainly never hoped for, I was encouraged and impressed by the power of hope. The surprising destinations this trip provided our family extended well beyond the beautiful places and great food we shared. In the midst of this gritty stage in our family's life, I'm more humbled, but less scared – because of the fearlessness of a woman in a wig. Perhaps laughter is the best medicine for everyone. It might not physically cure anything, and it might cause a scene where people drop their forks and stare. But, in its wake swims a boldness that steadies the mind and illustrates the value in little moments shared among those who laugh together and take long breaths, exhaling right along with each other.
