I got a little sidetracked in my last entry. Well, a lot sidetracked. But that’s the benefit of a journal and not a—gasp!—diary. When I journal I can take every rabbit trail I want and not feel like I broke some unwritten rules. I always found diaries as too specific and full of excessive introspection. Me, I just prefer to write whatever comes to mind. Sometimes those ramblings jar loose rusty memories, which is where this entry is going to take me. Back to December 11, 1990. The day I became terrified of fog. It was a Tuesday.
The decision to begin Christmas break early my senior year was not my idea. I wanted extra days to spend with friends. And hit up your typical high school party. A little drinking, petting, strip poker. You know, standard young person exploration mixed with stupidity stuff. I’ll admit to being on the wild side. I was safe, or at least I believed I was safe at that age. Okay, okay. I had been on the pill for five years already, so I was a lot more careless than I should’ve been. At least looking through the twenty-twenty hindsight eyeglasses, I was safe. Before you all think I was the local bicycle, I had—yes had—as in not anymore, a physical condition that birth control managed. Of course, how would I know? Mom is the one who insisted I be on birth control.
TMI, I know. But you’re the one reading this so don’t throw stones in my direction.
My dad’s family all lived in Chattanooga. And I do mean all his family. They had migrated up and down the east coast from Florida to Maine and back south again. They were like migrating animals always chasing the rainy season for greener pastures. But when they arrived in Chattanooga, it was like they arrived at the Mara River, and not one of them was willing to take that first leap into the River of Death.
And that’s where we were headed on that Tuesday morning. We had to leave early even though we had driven all the way to Asheville, North Carolina the day before. Still almost four hours to go. So, we were out the door by six that morning, and planned no stops until arriving at my uncle’s house.
At Knoxville we took Interstate 75 south after leaving Interstate 40 from Asheville. I don’t recall what the traffic was like. Or the weather. Or anything, really. My mind concerned itself with other things far more important to an eighteen year old. Besides I wasn’t driving. And Knoxville wasn’t new. We had been there before. An hour later all hell had broken loose. And the images I saw that morning still haunt my sleep.
If it wasn’t for my dad’s heroics, I’m not sure I would’ve ever come to grips (as flimsy as they still are) with the carnage. But what my dad did that day for so many people has always provided me with a lifeline. And the scars on his arms are a not-so-subtle daily reminder of the events that started with the fog.
I’ll need a break for now. The memories are too overwhelming for me to focus on writing. And the tears in my eyes are making the screen blurry.
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