Dorothy (Hall) McCarroll died yesterday at the age of 86. She had been my hands-down best friend since my parents brought “baby boy Hall” home from the hospital 77 years ago. From that moment on, as my older sister, Dorothy demonstrated an unfathomable depth of love for, as she often reminded me, “My little brother.” That I stood a head above her mattered not. Her selfless predisposition to making my life a better place to live evidenced itself so profoundly that even as a teenage boy I understood how I had been blessed. Now, as her surviving “little brother,” I am reflecting on the totality of her life as a daughter, sister, wife, mother of three, grandmother of eight and great-grandmother of three. I am struck by how much she enriched not only my life but the myriad lives whom she touched. All had been elevated by her kind, compassionate, perceptive and wise counsel; sincere concern and readiness to laugh when crying was an alternative. In looking back over our many years, my thoughts go to what she told me ranked as the three best days we ever spent together. As a widow in 2005, the financial demands of New Jersey living forced her to end her lifelong residence in Bergen County and move near her daughter in Mobile, Alabama. When told of her decision to move I informed her that I refused to wave goodbye at an airport. My alternative would be a road trip adventure. I would drive my sister to Mobile.

Driving My Sister to Mobile

Trixie, Dorothy and me driving to Mobile

Dorothy, our grandmother and me

An early sun cast long shadows across the quiet suburban street. For the last time she closed the front of the finely trimmed house that she and husband Donald had owned for 40 years. Seated in the passenger seat and without equivocation Dorothy with eyes facing straight ahead softly but firmly said, “Let’s go. I do not want to look back.” I fired up my sister’s gold 1991 Volvo 740GLE. With bright-eyed Trixie our canine travel buddy resting her head on the front seat center armrest brother and sister took to the highway. I felt confident in our Volvo. It had low miles as the demands placed on it by my sister were minimal. She basically drove it 6 miles to and from the art gallery where she had worked.

Early conversation focused on our destination and expectations. That said, it hurt her to leave the home she loved. As the white lines flicked by it seemed to create a freeing of thoughts, memories and the willingness to share them. My sister teed up a memory I had heard before. She recalled being maybe 9 years old and walking with our father to the center of town about a mile from home. She slipped off a curb and went down. A friend of the family happened to be driving by. He stopped and offered to drive them home. My father rugged individualist that he was declined the offer with a thank you while dismissing the need to inconvenience a friend. My sister hobbled home only to find out that her leg had been broken. Oh God, that memory provoked a release of “Can you F’n believe it” laughter as we crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge into Pennsylvania. The lighthearted retelling of that painful experience served to grant permission for greater exploration and sharing of personal memory vault content. We realized that for all out history we had never spent a full day much less three days solely in each other’s company. Without specific intention we both responded to the opportunity afforded by such an extended period for a free and easy exchange. It opened the spigots for self deprecating humor and honest dialogue. It resulted in an intoxicating brew of shared memories, revelations and self assessments.

Helping to endure the dreaded mind numbing Route 95, our conversations became ever more free, open and lively. We laughed about all of the car projects to which she contributed a breathtaking array of upholstering skills. She created the beautiful blue curtains for my white 1963 23-window VW Microbus. When I replaced the van with a 1967 Jeep Commando sporting a pick-up truck body we worked together insulating the cab (I would be taking it to weather the bitter winters in grad school at Syracuse University). I tie-dyed a white bed sheet and, thanks to Dorothy  turned it into a well fitting headliner. Not stopping there I purchased sail canvas and she fabricated a pick-up bed tonneau with snaps. She even joined me as a blazing summer sun softened the new Al Knock replacement vinyl seat surfaces before we installed them in my 1961 Corvette.

One of our shared joys involved a well stocked cooler of delicatessen delights, a fresh baked desert (in this case an apple pie) and a roadside picnic table. Having left Route 95, a state park in Virginia with a creekside picnic area neatly filled the bill for a bucolic waterside lunch time retreat. Pasta salad, sliced roast beef on fresh Arthur Avenue bread with tasty condiments concluded with a healthy wedge of apple pie, pure roadside meal heaven. As I lay back on a blanket staring at the underside of a glowing green canopy of trees, my sister explored the rushing waters that supplied the sound track to our reveries.

Returning to the road we had many miles to go with Spartanburg, South Carolina being our destination. Having written for BMW for over thirty Years, I wanted to take the opportunity the next morning to tour the Spartanburg facility and BMW Zentrum. Each mile seemed to lessen any hesitancy concerning the acceptability of thoughts or experiences as a subject of conversation. As our journey proceeded the only discordance came courtesy of a the Volvo’s exhaust system. By late afternoon I had to pull over to explore the source of a disquieting rattle. It appeared an exhaust hanger had deteriorated and left the tailpipe free to roam about the undercarriage. I sought to jury rig a quick fix. Reaching our destination, my sister retreated to her room while I threw down a blanket by the Volvo and sought to fine tune my crude roadside repair to last for two more days on the road. Time would prove the worthiness of my repair. It would not do the same for the exhaust system. More about that later.

A sunny and bright South Carolina morning welcomed us. In kind with the warmth of the southern sun the warmth between brother and sister palpably elevated the mood. BMW had been kind enough to set up a private tour of the facility and Zentrum. Dorothy, unless working on one of my vehicles, lacked the auto enthusiasm that would draw her into an automobile museum. She waited outside and sunned by the Volvo with a book.

With Spartanburg in the rear view mirror, late morning found our sibling team back on the road and traveling at speed. I am sure to my sister’s distress I had repeatedly expressed my despair at the absence of bakeries since we left New Jersey. However, as we sped down the endless corridor of towering pines that lined South Carolina Highway 28 By-Pass, there it stood. A very large well crafted wooden sign proudly proclaimed Swartzentruber’s Bakery. I swear I could hear angels sing. The bakery appeared to be in a lovely old home sitting high on a rise by the

roadside. Pulling to park in the rear I went to explore leaving my sister in the car. In opening the glass and aluminum door, my olfactory senses exploded in delight. An immaculate counter area manned by a lovely and gracious Mennonite woman welcomed me. Behind her and across the shop floor people pushed rolling trays of hot fresh heavenly scented baked goods fresh from the oven. They filled the bright open airy room with such glorious aromas that I simply ran out and begged my sister to join me inside. She did. We bought goodies for the ride and returned to the road with Anniston, Alabama our day two destination.

During this day’s journey through the back roads of the deep south my sister and I opened up about personal feelings, experiences, perspectives and episodes defined by pain inflicted or joy encountered. We explored the forces that can shape lives, that had shaped ours. Freed of the strictures assigned by our roles in life that can constrict open discourse, we touched on things that simply dinged and some that outright devastated. Lives shared for so many years can develop a very full understanding of a sibling’s backstory. Our time spent together on the journey afforded many opportunities to fill gaps previously unaddressed or, till then, unknown.

As the day moved into late afternoon I found the Volvo’s exhaust system devolved painfully close to exhaustion. The exhaust pipe exiting the catalytic converted had deteriorated to the point of freeing the tailpipe to pivot about my sturdy jury rigged hanger. The freed tailpipe had now melted a perfect horseshoe shape into the lower right side of the rear bumper facia. Something had to be done.  I sought professional help. God bless the local Midas Muffler shop. He cut and shaped a piece of tubing and welded in the patch. Thirty dollars. Thank you.

A threatening sky welcomed us to our final day on the road. The grey skies could not cloud our mood. Departing Northern Alabama we headed south for Mobile. Shortly thereafter the skies and our mood darkened. I did not fault the kind man at Midas Muffler. His patch clearly had maintained its integrity. I could confirm this because I had a great view as I inspected the muffler and piping that rested on the ground completely detached from the Volvo. As the open header effect had captured the attention of both my sister and myself, I pulled off onto a back road and subsequently into the parking lot of a local and “rustic” BBQ stand. It had all the excitement of pulling into the pits at Talladega, in kind of a rough-hewn way. There was no point in discussing the problem with the locals. I simply ripped the whole assembly off flung it into the conveniently located dumpster waved and departed. And not too inconspicuously I might add. As we rumbled back on to Route 65 in the heart of NASCAR country, my sister astutely remarked, “Burton we either need to get a muffler or a number.” God I loved her sense of humor. At that point the skies opened up to a downpour. That drenching rain served as a most fortuitous turn of events. The exhaust had broken off below a heat shield. I figured between the cool rain and the protective heat shield I could cover the last few miles without setting the car on fire. Indeed we did make it safely to Dorothy’s new home. However, We did not make our open-pipe entry into the new neighborhood unnoticed.

Inspired by the insights my sister shared on that glorious three-day odyssey, I reflected on all she had selflessly done for so many people. My mind wandered to the children’s book, “The giving tree.” There a tree gave everything of itself until it had nothing left to give. It would not be so in the case of my very giving sister. A similar book about my sister would be called “The Mothering Tree.” My sister’s tree had nurtured all those she touched and the roots from her tree would continue to nurture  generations to come. Even now as my sister has passed, the memory that lives on in the hearts of those she touched will remain a source of inspiration, a subject of admiration and a righteous model for emulation. God bless you Dorothy.

The next Lost Royale episode will return next week.