Winning the Lottery.

I can't truly remember the first trip we ever took together.  I was too little to remember the long drives, the places we'd stop for gas, to stretch our legs, or where we'd grab a bite to eat.  I'm told I loved bananas, yogurt, and banana yogurt.  I don't remember the hotel rooms, I couldn't tell you if it was hot or cold or rainy when we set out on our adventures.  What memories I have of our earliest trips have come to me through other people's memories - namely, my travel companion.

"You would sit there in your car seat, a huge pile of books piled to the left of you.  Without a word you'd pick one up, flip through it for a minute, then you'd toss it off to the right before picking up another one from the pile on the left.  Over and over and over.  Whenever we'd stop and I'd open the door to get you out it was guaranteed a pile of books would come spilling out of the car into the parking lot."

Of course, I eventually reached an age where I did start to make memories of my own; of the car rides, the trips down to Georgia every spring to visit my grandparents, the added bonus of excursions - Vanderbilt Mansion, the Smokey Mountains - along the way.  There were the day trips down to the beaches of New Jersey during summer vacation or, always at least once every summer, longer road trips - over to Hershey, PA or Lancaster County; night drives in and out of Philadelphia after a play or a fancy dinner.  My favorite were always the Sunday mornings when I'd hear my bedroom door crack open and she'd peek her face in, making sure I was awake.  "Kel.  How about we drive up to Manhattan today?"  She'd shut the door behind her, a minute later, after I'd nodded like a madwoman, jumping out of bed and grinning like a fool.   

And then there were the flights - to Arizona one year, to San Francisco and Northern California another.  How lucky I was, how fortunate, in fact, to have several trips agreed upon, encouraged, and supported - to France, to England, even to Disney World for my Senior Class trip - when she wasn't even invited - or allowed! - to come along for the journey.  Of course, we got to Europe in our own way, on our own schedules, once when I was five.  And then again, in my early twenties, on a few different occasions.  We still laugh until our sides hurt whenever we recount the night we stayed in a virtual stranger's house in rural France, having knocked on the door when we noticed a room for rent sign by their driveway, none of us able to communicate beyond the price for one night, and the fact that yes, breakfast would be included.  It was in Italy one afternoon when she noticed cherry trees along the side of the road, pulling over to pick them, handing them to me faster than I could even eat them, both of us marveling over how delicious they were, warmed perfectly in the sun.  And it was in that same cherry tree orchard where I snapped one of my favorite "minds eye" moments, one I will treasure and carry with me always.  A slew of Italian bikers  peddled past us, all of them calling "bella! bella!" over and over again while they were within earshot.  I can remember looking over at her, and watching my lovely Mother smile, hearing her giggle, as she continued to pluck more of those delicious cherries.       

I didn't get home for Mother's Day this year, I didn't get to hop a flight down to Atlanta and spend the weekend with the person who probably knows me best on this great, vast Earth.  But I got to speak with her, and we were able to Skype thanks to the power of the interwebs, which made the thousands of miles between us seem not quite so far after all. 

It would take a book to begin to list all of the things I think my mother has given me; to name all of the things for which I immensely grateful.  I never hear a lawn mower start up in someones yard without thinking of the deep, unshakable comfort I used to feel as a child waking up to the sound of my mother outside cutting the grass before the day got too hot.  Always, if I catch a whiff of her perfume in a department store, I instantly ache for my Mom to be nearby, calling out a quick "Kel.  Look at this." in a way I can't describe without tears forming at the corners of my eyes.

She is the first person I call with good news.  She is the first one I ring with bad.  And while I can't even begin to quantify the gifts, the insight, the knowledge or the love she has given me for over 33 years, I can tell you that I am awash with gratitude on a regular basis for this one particular treasure, this gift of travel; for planting the seed and the desire to enjoy. the. journey. since before I could even walk.

My passport is filled with stamps, my "to-see" list gradually collects a few check-marks every year or so, I continue to dream up destinations, to set my sights on places I'd like to plant my feet - even if only for a few hours - around the globe.

I'm sure there's a part of that desire, that travel bug that's innate.  Nature versus nurture.  And yet I know too, that without my Mother's support and encouragement I would not have seen half of the places I've been fortunate to see.  My Mother does not let much hold her back.  I don't remember a time when she decided we shouldn't go on a trip because my father had to work, or later, because my parents had split up and she'd be taking my brother and I alone.  Whenever Mom has wanted to go somewhere, she has gone - inviting those who dare to come along for the ride...and leaving those that would rather stay at home, behind.  Which, as a single woman in my early 30's is a trait I'm rather proud to have inherited as well.

There is a line in a Bright Eye's song I love. It is one I think of often, particularly when I'm debating what might be interpreted by some as an intimidating decision: "I'd rather be working for a paycheck, than waiting to win the lottery."  

 My Mom taught me to work for that paycheck, to go after what I wanted, to see the world - whether I had someone on my arm to see it with or not. 

In her own unique way, she has given me each and every stamp in my passport to date.