Springer's Journey

This morning I was going to relax.

I would like that entered into the record.

I had coffee. I was sitting at my campsite. I had been thinking—as I am occasionally known to do—about Piper and Poppy.

Actually, “thinking” is generous.

I had been examining the possibility of traveling with two kittens from approximately fourteen different directions. Could they adapt to camping? Would they be happy? Could I keep them safe? What if Cora broke down? What if we were stranded somewhere? What if I made the wrong decision?

I can beat a hypothesis to death with science before I ever get around to testing it.

Apparently my new friend Michelle has figured this out.

She knew I had been questioning whether I could responsibly care for Piper and Poppy.

So this morning she arrived at my campsite with two kittens.

She didn’t make a speech. She didn’t tell me I would be a wonderful kitten owner. She didn’t try to argue me out of my concerns.

She calmly handed me Piper and Poppy and said,

“I need you to hang on to them for today.”

And somewhere in there was also:

“Quit thinking.”

Then she drove away.

I believe my response was:

“Have a nice day.”

That was the best I had.

I didn’t even have kitten food.

So the first controlled scientific trial of Piper and Poppy’s camping aptitude began with scrambled eggs.

So much for the laboratory protocol.

---

The funny thing is, we had already planned this exact experiment.

Just more slowly.

I wanted to give the girls a chance to experience my life and then watch what they told me.

Not what I wanted them to tell me.

Not what I was afraid they might tell me.

The data.

Are they eating?

Playing?

Exploring?

Grooming?

Using their litter?

When something startles them, do they recover?

And most important to me: after all the excitement is over, can they settle down and sleep?

Well.

They ate.

They played.

They explored.

Four squirrels came over to investigate the new residents, tails flicking madly while the kittens stayed very close to me and had a marvelous time.

One of the girls put her head into my hand, rested there and licked my thumb.

Scientific objectivity became somewhat compromised at that point.

Then I needed a nap.

I didn’t particularly want one, but apparently the principal investigator had exceeded her operational limits.

When I woke up, Poppy was sitting on my seat.

And Piper was tapping me on the nose.

Tap. Tap.

Excuse me, Grandma. Are you still alive?

Oh, yes.

Grandma.

That happened today too.

Apparently this experiment has completely gone off the rails.

---

But something else happened today.

For the first time, I talked about the day Cora broke down on I-40.

Really talked about it.

I had come out of Missouri through horrible electrical storms and construction. Traffic was flying. I took I-40 toward Fort Smith, and suddenly I could feel Cora falling apart beneath me.

I knew her.

We’d been together enough miles that I knew something was terribly wrong.

I tried the emergency flashers.

Nothing.

There was nowhere to go.

Then I saw it.

Not really a shoulder. Just a miserable little splinter of pavement.

And I knew it was my only chance.

Cora got me there.

She was rolling downhill, and I pressed those brakes as though my life depended upon it.

Because I believed it did.

When the state trooper reached me, he said,

“Ma’am, you can take your feet off the brakes.”

I told him,

“I’m afraid to.”

He said he was going to move me somewhere safer.

I cannot adequately describe how grateful I was to that man.

Until today, I don’t think I understood why that memory had become tangled up with Piper and Poppy.

If I brought two little lives into Cora, what if something like that happened again?

Could I protect them?

Could I be responsible for them?

And somewhere during that conversation, I remembered something else.

My mom.

---

I grew up in the woods and hills.

We packed water from a spring. There were bears and cougars and other animals that deserved respect.

One night it was dark and we needed water.

Mom said,

“We have to go to the spring. Will you walk with me?”

She didn’t make me walk alone.

Naturally, being me, I asked whether we should take the .22.

Mom said no.

“We’re going to be okay. The dogs are going to be with us.”

And off we went.

My mother was my first professor.

She taught me how to be quiet in the woods.

Stop.

Think.

Listen.

Listen some more.

Listen even longer.

Then sit there.

She taught me that an animal simply being there did not mean it was coming after me.

Read its behavior.

Pay attention.

Leave it alone if it is simply going about its business.

She taught me something I wouldn’t have known how to put into words as a little girl:

Danger can exist without requiring us to be afraid of everything.

Know your environment.

Respect it.

Use the safeguards you need.

Then live your life.

Apparently I’ve been carrying that lesson around for a very long time.

---

And then, because this day apparently had not done enough…

I got some news.

WE HAVE A PLACE.

I can hardly type those words.

We are going back to the KOA in Hurricane Mills, Tennessee.

They have a cabin for us.

Heat.

Air conditioning.

Two hundred dollars a month.

And we can stay for the rest of the year.

But here’s the part that made me cry:

THEY WANT US BACK.

Not they have an opening.

Not they’ll let us stay.

They want us back.

For months, Springer’s Journey has meant figuring out where we’re going next.

Where will we sleep?

How far does Cora have to go?

What’s the weather doing?

Where can we camp?

How long can we stay?

What’s the next road?

What’s the next place?

Now, for a little while, there is an answer.

Hurricane Mills, Tennessee.

We have a place.

---

And then I remembered that Penny, one of the people there, rescues stray kittens.

I had forgotten that when I told her I had two young ones now named Piper and Poppy.

She immediately sent me a photograph of one of her rescued babies.

Of course she did.

I’m not even going to ask why anymore.

Some questions apparently do not require further investigation.

---

We aren’t leaving tomorrow.

The girls need to be ready to travel.

Cora needs to be ready.

I need to be ready.

We’ll go slowly.

Short days.

Daylight.

No racing.

No proving anything.

Slow and easy sets the pace.

And maybe that’s the strangest thing about today.

This morning I was trying to determine whether I could create a perfectly safe world for two kittens.

By afternoon, I remembered that my mother never created a perfectly safe world for me.

There were bears.

There were cougars.

There was darkness.

There was a spring we had to walk to because we needed water.

But Mom walked beside me.

The dogs came too.

And she taught me how to read the world I lived in.

Maybe that’s the job.

Not to promise Piper and Poppy that nothing frightening will ever happen.

Not to promise myself that Cora will never break down again.

Not to demand certainty before we’re allowed to live.

Prepare.

Pay attention.

Listen.

Learn.

And when it’s dark and somebody needs to walk to the spring—

we go together.

This morning Michelle handed me two kittens because she trusted me.

Tonight I have somewhere to take them.

A place where people already know us.

A place where somebody rescues stray kittens.

A place with a cabin waiting.

A place where they said:

Come back.

I have spent much of this journey learning how to read landscapes, animals, weather, roads, Cora—and occasionally myself.

We’re starting to read it.

And today?

Today I think the universe wrote in very large letters.

WE HAVE A PLACE.

Tennessee, here we come.

As soon as the girls are ready.

ARE YOU SERIOUS??!!

🥹❤️🐾🐾

Polished with help from ChatGPT, who understands Mayday Murphy far better than any reasonable being should.