Photo: Dr. Pat

The year of my sixteenth Christmas, I went to visit my Grandmother by bus. It was the first time I'd traveled alone.

I remember being so excited about this journey. I was just dying to get out in the world by myself! Hey, everybody knows that rock stars get around on buses. And so does every small town teen turned Broadway starlet.

Yes, this was Big Time.

I was headed to Birmingham, Alabama.

I kissed my worried Mother goodbye, and pretended not to hear her reminding me about stranger danger as I got on the bus. I don't know what she was anxious about. I had good sense and everything else I needed...

My backpack and portable cassette player, a few painstakingly created special solo-trip mixed tapes, and a copy of Seventeen magazine.

I was all set.

The 150-mile journey took about six hours, so I had plenty of time to get to know my seat neighbor. She was not the kind of person my mother warned me about, because she was not a stranger for more than a minute.

She may not have ever even met a stranger, as a matter of fact. She regarded me as an instant friend and confidant for the intimate details of her life.

Her husband was a trucker, and they were separated at the moment. She wondered if I thought she oughtta take him back. It was Christmastime, and all. And he was out on the road alone. She usually shared the ride with him.

I was interested in her stories, but she'd been talking for an awfully long time. And if you set her words to music, you'd have yourself a Merle Haggard song. There were no honky-tonk favorites like Mama Tried on the mixed tapes I was anxious to listen to. But I was too polite to put my headphones on.

She "sang" of all the exotic places she'd seen on that big rig —Little Rock, Oklahoma City, Indianapolis, Dayton, Lexington — all faraway places I hadn't been. I've always appreciated travel stories. Still, I'd fumble with my the headphones between each "verse," hoping she'd get the hint.

She didn't.

At some point, she realized she was hogging the conversation spotlight and asked where I was from — a change of subject I was grateful for. I was still socially naive enough to believe people who asked such questions were hoping I'd start at the very beginning.

"Well, I was born in Canada, and then..."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she interrupted, her eyes closed and chin lifted as if she were envisioning some kind of heaven. "I been there!" She swayed her head to emphasize Canada's dreamlike wonder as she continued: "That's a bea-uuuuuuuuuuuuu-tiful state!!"

I sat in stunned silence.

My mother tried to warn me some strangers are dangerous, and suddenly I knew what she meant. This well-meaning soul was attempting to navigate the world without the basics like a decent map! That was the moment I decided it was okay to be rude, so I put on my headphones to shut out anything she might say next. I was probably listening to George Michael or something, but this woman's "greatest hits" still rang in my head.

All I could hear was... "Canada is a bea-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-tiful state!!"

And that left only me to blame, 'cos Mama Tried....