The first year after my husband and I met, we tethered together a long distance romance through letters, very short phone calls since long distance cost quite a bit in the 1970s, and short weekend visits. We got married before living in two different cities proved too taxing.
My long distance relationships, after marriage, began with my parents and siblings. From 1976 until 2002, no one in my family of origin lived within a three to four hour drive from me. After Dad died, Mom decided returning to San Antonio for the double benefit of living closer to me and military bases would be smart. For the first time in twenty-six years, I embraced the fun of having family living within walking distance of home. Before Mom’s Huntington’s disease became a daily challenge, we enjoyed shopping together. We’d grab a bite at one of her favorite places. We ventured to Renaissance faires, checked out the casinos in Shreveport, and began her wind chime collection found in different Texas towns.
With Mom here, I began a different long distance relationship with my brother who remained back in League City. Mom continued to pay the taxes and upkeep on that home as my brother’s full time job, at barely above minimum wage, couldn’t handle property taxes or emergency repairs like a new hot water heater, or washer and dryer. Once Mom died, he still drew on the money she left for groceries twice a month, home owners’ insurance, property taxes, auto insurance, and unexpected car repairs. Once her money drew down, my sister and I continued helping with insurance and taxes, adding to the account without my brother’s knowledge. Eventually, his income rose when his new manager realized his previous boss hadn’t given him any raises in at least ten years. As she gave him the highest possible increases each year, he needed less and less until the account is only used for keeping him in his home—property taxes and home owner's insurance. That home owner’s coverage saved him when the big freeze hit Texas and broken pipes flooded his house.
When his twenty-year-old car expired on our doorstep a few Christmases ago, we gave him our Ford Focus, then turning eight and nowhere the 250,000 miles of his catastrophic heap. For the first time in years, he hasn’t needed help.
Until . . . he decided to make certain his car’s gas tank was full before Hurricane Beryl hit the coast. Monday morning he called in panic that his car was dead at a Shell station. In the past, he would’ve called his neighbor for help, but this friend died last year. Now began the terror of knowing my brother, who doesn’t have a smart phone or internet access to contact a towing company, was stranded four hours away from me. My sister’s town got the full force of Beryl, with high winds and flooding rains leaving her inaccessible with no phone service. I got online, talked to someone from the garage my brother uses, and she gave me the towing service they use. My brother walked home, and once I gave him the number, started to try to get his car towed. BUT—you need a charge card to have your car towed, which my brother doesn’t have.
Next began a frustrated exchange with the towing company with me because I got disconnected from the first operator trying to set up the tow. The second woman got confused and flipped that I wanted my brother and his car picked up at a Shell station and taken to a Firestone, but when she read it all back before disconnecting, the information seemed correct. Shell to Firestone. I gave her my brother’s phone number as the contact number. On my phone, I ignored several calls from some Florida number, and realized eventually that it was the tow truck driver contacting me because he couldn’t find my brother or his car. When I called the company to find out why no one had picked him up, the operator said they couldn’t find the car. He quickly assigned another truck to go out—this time with the driver contacting me. When he called to say he the car and my brother weren’t at the Shell station, my anxiety doubled. I stated emphatically, “He’s sitting in his car at the Shell station on 518 and I45! I don’t see how you can’t find him!”
The driver stated directly, “That’s not the Shell station they put into the system. I’m at another station in League City. Don’t worry. I know exactly which station he’s at.”
And Save a Life Towing found my brother and his dead car, towed it less than a mile down the road, and left us all grateful that this eight hour nightmare was over.
Worry dogged all our sleep Monday night, but a quick diagnosis with the computer on Tuesday showed the car’s problem. A replaced part that cost less than the tow means my brother’s back on the road.
In my mind, though, I know that we need to begin brainstorming the possibility of my brother moving closer to family. He lives in the house that’s been his home for 48 years. He’s worked at his job for 24 years. I don’t know if I can convince him that problem solving long distance won’t ever get easier. As all of us age, it may be wiser for him relocate. I can hear him say, “I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK.” Then we’ll settle back into the false confidence that we can handle long distance problem solving just a little longer.
Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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