The Lives of Others

Open letter to my mother, Peggy Stanley, and the rest of my family:

I have a confession to make: I've talked trash about you. A lot.

Sometimes it came from anger, confusion or frustration. Other times I just needed to vent -- with love, of course! -- about that year you dramatically cancelled Christmas because no one was getting along, fought with each other until someone nearly drew blood and played a juvenile game of phone tag with predictable results.

There, now you know.

But if it makes you feel any better -- and it should -- I was talking to Mary when I unleashed those tirades. And no one understands me -- or, by extension, you all -- better than she does.

It's a gift in this life to have a friend so close that she can finish your thoughts and your sentences. Mary's always been that friend to me. And since we've known each other for so long -- we were college roommates back, oh, a few years ago, and have been tight now for a couple decades -- she's had an equally long relationship with my family.

That gives her a unique perspective, a bird's eye view, if you will, where she knows the personalities, the motivations, the history, the quirks and the neuroses. She's involved without being "one of us," which means she can be a good deal more impartial than I can. Oh how valuable that's been over the years.

So if I ever launched a blog about the Stanley clan, I'd want her perspective included.

That hasn't happened -- yet -- but there was no question in either of our minds that the reverse would be true for MarysMovingMom. As a friend of the family and a longtime fan of Patricia's, I have a point of view that's intimate without being tethered. In other words, I can say what I want -- kindly, of course -- and I'm not likely to get rapped on the knuckles for it or be written out of the will.

Not that I've ever been shy about throwing in my two cents, but in this case it seemed logical and natural to both of us. And it's always nice, as writers, to have someone else's work to bounce off because, as close as we are, we definitely have different voices.

I'm not in the car with Mary and Pat on this cross-country odyssey from our hometown in Louisville, Ky., to Los Angeles, dealing with thunderstorms in Tulsa or trip tik lost on the way to Amarillo. (That was one of Mary's latest Tweets, by the way. Check the feed on the right for more). That means I'm probably a lot less stressed and exhausted than they are, and I can help steer the ship (that would be the blog) with a fairly clear head.

Mary and Pat are doing the best they can from the road, though it's a trial, made more difficult by an injury that Pat suffered right before they left Louisville. Her knee's achy and sore, so sitting for long stretches in the car isn't comfortable. Pat's not much on riding and napping, so their progress has been exceedingly slow.

It could take them a week or more to arrive in Burbank, where Pat has a lovely apartment waiting for her at an assisted living facility that's about equidistant from Mary's place, her sister Ruth's home and my house.

As Mary's said from the beginning, she has to be nimble enough to alter this journey, whether that means only driving a few hundred miles a day or considering scrapping it all together out of concern for Pat's health.

From the start, it's been a joyful and painful trip, filled with instant memories of a lifetime and aggravations large and small. I'll be hearing a lot more about it, if only because I know where I'd turn to share all those details.

So go ahead, Mare, let it rip. I'm listening.